I Thought I Saw
by The Cat's Whiskers
Summary: The boys suffer a 'Catastrophe'...
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** _The TV show _Supernatural_ and all characters therein are owned by assorted Americans, not me. This fiction is purely for the enjoyment of readers; no money is being made. All Original Characters remain the property of Catherine D. Stewart and may not be used without the express permission of the authoress.

**_Summary: _**The boys suffer a 'catastrophe'…

_**Rating:** _'T'/15. After writing **_The Scent of You _**I needed to go to a 'lighter', cheerier place. I'm not promising hysteria and belly-laughs, but this hopefully may provide moments of amusement. Set post-**Something Wicked** but before **Provenance** No **Warnings **as such, except the odd fruity phrase and some initially graphic descriptions. It is a little grim at first, but go with it. Oh, and special information for the benefit of Rachel F., I may not be as fast at updating this as with previous stories, but I will get there in the end...

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 1**

There was something wrong with Dean.

It wasn't a divine revelation with a herald angelic chorus of trumpets; it wasn't even one of those 'sudden bolt-upright in bed at 3:00a.m. epiphany' kind of deals. It was just a gradual realisation that Dean was 'off his game'. Not up to his usual operating level; under the weather.

But then again, Sam could relate. Some Hunts they left behind with a deep feeling of satisfaction and worthwhile effort, like killing that Shtriga; some Hunts haunted them still, such as Sammy blasting his brother with a shotgun at the Roosevelt Asylum, or the Bender family, more monstrous than anything because they had been just _people_. Some Hunts added frustration and anger to their already stacked-too-high-to-the-point-of-toppling-over emotional baggage.

This one fell firmly into the last category. The town of Westlake…Arkansas?...Sam had forgotten, and the rinky-dink town was almost literally in spitting distance of four State lines, jammed in the 'corner' where Arkansas, Missouri, Kentucky and Tennessee briefly shared map-space. After a while the ever-changing but endlessly identical places all blurred into one Any Town, USA, and as long as it had: gas station, diner, laundrette (not necessarily in that order) the brothers were okay. Even a town having a motel – make that _cheap _motel – in the vicinity could be classed as an 'optional extra' since the Impala's trunk had a tent and sleeping bags for emergency/no money situations, plus the brothers weren't exactly unused to sleeping in the car itself if necessity dictated.

Whatever; the town of Westlake was being terrorised by a supernatural nasty, something closely related to a 'Ghoul', but possibly not _specifically_ a Ghoul – apparently these things could have _sub-species_. Who knew? For a heady half-hour Sam had found himself working on an internal manuscript, sort of a Supernatural Wikipedia of Malevolent Entities: Kingdom: Evil; Phylum: Demoniac; Class: Absolutely none; Order: Chaotic; Family: Mystical; Genus: Badass; Species: Disgusting; Sub-species: Skanky.

But like the demon of Flight 2485 that had 'moved with the times' and brought down planes to ratchet up the body count instead of going after individuals, the 'Ghoulish' had hit on a way to disguise its depredations. Instead of being an upfront Ghoul and attacking people and eating them, it had 'infected' a local animal; the animal killed the human, and the Ghoul fed without having to break a sweat, like the 'fast-paced business executive' whose secretary actually did all the work but he got the salary. The local sheriff/hunters/park service shot the hapless animal and the Ghoul remained safely undetected to kill at will. Considering the average Ghoul had the IQ of wet lettuce and a brain slightly smaller than a walnut, it was a worryingly bright idea.

Indeed, had Dean's homemade-from-a-broken-Walkman EMF, shoved in his holdall on the back seat, not suddenly wailed like a cat with its tail trodden on – making Sam jerk awake with a jump and Dean swerve the Impala – as they drove with soporific weariness from Nowhere, Kentucky to Anonymous, Missouri they would never have known there was anything untoward.

They'd scouted around Westlake and once they'd been sure of what they were dealing with, had gone into the town posing as exactly what they were – hunters. Of course their IDs said 'Animal Control Specialists - The National Parks Service'. However, the job was both distressing and depressing. Again showing an unusual level of reasoning, the Ghoul had tried to occupy the two Hunters by infecting animals and sending them after the brothers while it moved deep into the local forest.

Sam's research had regrettably shown that unfortunately, once an animal was 'infected' by the Ghoul, there was no reversal; the only option was to kill the beast and salt and burn its bones so the Ghoul creature had no loophole back into the world. Dean and Sam had grown up mostly in tents perpetually 'camping' with Dad. They had only ever hunted for food, not sport, and other than that killed animals only in self-defence, such as when Dean had been fifteen and a starving cougar suffering mouth abscesses from a run in with a porcupine had homed in on ten-year-old Sam as an easy meal.

In the past four days Sam and Dean had been forced to shoot dead a black bear and her half-grown cub, a full grown male elk, a stag that tried to gore them to death with its antlers, two cougars, a lynx, a wolf, three foxes, five owls, a breeding pair of hawks and even a dozen chipmunks that that had launched themselves at the brothers from tree branches attempting to tear their throats out. Strangely it was the chipmunks that had upset both Sam and Dean the most; they'd fired their guns so fast the casings were too hot to touch and the clearing was littered with pathetic furry forms covered in blood and none larger than a cat. The poor creatures had had no chance to resist the Ghoul's power and the brothers had no choice but destroy them once infected.

Sam's rage against the abomination had reached volcanic proportions and he knew Dean was similarly affected as they were forced to destroy beautiful creatures that had done nothing except be unfortunate enough to live in the area the Ghoul had chosen as its new feeding ground. The only barely bright spot was that the Ghoul thing seemed only able to infect mammalian life, sparing the brothers from any replays of the massed bug attacks in Oasis Plains, such as swarms of killer bees, hordes of snakes or armies of poisonous spiders.

In Westlake, local representatives of The National Park Service, a body not known for its brilliance in conservation and ecological matters, was already muttering about 'some sort of cross-species virus' and 'cull'. Even worse, the longer the situation went on the more ammunition it gave to the scrap-the-national-park-and-concrete-everything brigade, who were drooling at the thought of all those development dollars and blind to everything bar the image of a mega-mall that floated in front of their eyes.

That had led to Sam's realisation that Dean was…sick. Not the psychologically warped 'sicko' insult that they yelled at each other when they were having a furious argument, but sick as in 'ill'; though it certainly wasn't an ER type illness…nothing like when Dean had been electrocuted, thank you Lord.

From what Sam could see it was sort of a low-level persistent 'not well', like having a really bad cold for a week and being left with a cough that lingered for two months. Dean's face was pale and drawn; his eyes 'heavy' and dull. Dean customarily slept on his side/stomach, his fingertips never more than an inch from the wickedly sharp hunting-knife he always kept under the pillow, but for the past few days Sam had woken in the night and looked across at the other bed in the motel room to see Dean on his back, fitfully dozing and restless.

Dean, who could not function unless given the opportunity to mainline caffeine and eat a breakfast that consisted preferably of red meat and eggs but at least one or the other, and who needed to be handled with the caution of someone approaching a caged and very angry tiger before he achieved this, had been sitting in the local diner as docilely as a drugged lamb rejecting anything more than OJ...and a _bran muffin_, something that in Dean's lexicon was like the antichrist of food.

It was something outside Sam's experience. Growing up as they had on their perpetual road trip with John Winchester near destitute much of the time, the two boys had led vastly more active lives than almost any modern-day American child and indeed adults other than those serving in the U.S. Military. Growing up bathing in rivers and climbing trees and eating food bereft of pesticides, preservatives, additives, artificial sugars, fats, salt and 'convenience processing' had made them far healthier than most of their peer group, at least amongst white Americans. That wasn't to say they hadn't been ill as children – Sam vividly remembered them both going down with measles – but many common complaints seemed to pass them by as their immune systems were a lot more alert and robust to annihilate germ invaders.

What's more, the lingering was Sam's problem, not Dean's. As he grew up, Sam had realised that people had two different types of immune system. When a person became ill, the lucky ones, like Dean, were bedridden in agony for about two or three days and were utterly pitiful in the sweats and the hacking and the puking and the limp-as-a-newborn-kitten. But around day three to four they would throw back the covers, take a breath and go in search of coffee, ham, eggs, bacon, hash browns and the full works.

The other people were the unfortunate ones like Sam, where they were not ill enough to be bedridden and skip school or work but not really well enough to be there either. For three to four _weeks_ they endured various combinations of stuffy noses, sinusitis, raw throats, 24/7 Metallica gigs inside their tortured skull, shivering fits, hot flushes, sore/gritty eyes, aching bones, perpetual queasiness, zero appetite and body-wracking coughs – never severe enough to take their feet out from under them, but never minor enough to feel anything other than totally wretched.

If given a choice, Sam would have traded three weeks of feeling miserably wretched for three days of just-shoot-me-now; the point was, Dean had always fallen into the latter category, which was why this wan visage was so perturbing.

More importantly, it meant that Dean was off his game for this Hunt. Sam had seen his brother totally in the zone even when badly 'dinged' – the Shtriga had thrown him across a room into a closet yet less than twenty seconds later Dean had been on his feet and focussed enough to save Sam's life by shooting the thing. Sam knew how hurt Dean had been - he had bound up Dean's cracked ribs and rubbed ointment on his bruised back when they got to their next motel once Michael and his mother had left for the hospital by the simple expedient of threatening Dean with further physical violence if he did not sit down, shut up and submit to Sam's First Aid ministrations, and both of them had known Dean couldn't have taken Sam in the state he was in.

But Dean was slower than normal, even perilously close to sluggish. Sam had noted that he had killed an unprecedented ten of the 'rabid' chipmunks to Dean's three. That was a particularly worrisome thing in view of the fact that they were now closing in on the Ghoul.

Animals did not have intelligence, but they possessed abundant survival instincts; on 26th December 2004, nearly a quarter-of-a-million humans had perished in the Asian Tsunami, whereas the animal deaths had totalled something like less-than-one-percent of that figure because God's lesser creatures were hightailing it for the hills within twenty seconds of the tsunami being triggered.

Likewise, when the Ghoul had moved in, any animal that could had moved out, as far from the thing's sphere of influence as they could manage. The Ghoul therefore had a finite supply of pawns to throw in the path of the Hunters, and its stock had been rapidly decimated. Sam and Dean were ninety-nine percent certain they had triangulated the location of the cave where the Ghoul was holed up in the local woods.

But for the first time in…ever…Sam didn't have confidence that Dean had his back. Not that Dean was unwilling – such an idea was inconceivable – but in his present below par state he lacked that finely honed edge that set him apart and indeed above other Hunters, including as Sam readily acknowledged, both himself _and_ their father.

Dean was a Hunter in the way that Mozart had been a composer, or Michelangelo an artist. John Winchester was almost as good, and Sam no slouch, but both knew that if it had been an Olympic event, Dean would have taken the Gold every time; John would have been solid silver. For all his psychic whammy and telekinesis 'edge', Sam knew he himself would easily take the Bronze but never achieve beyond that, and it didn't bother him, but in his present condition, Dean wouldn't even make the qualifying heats.

And Sam found that he was viewing what should have been a simple Ghoul search-and-destroy with a similar level of fear to when he and Dean had been imprisoned in that warehouse by Meg Masters, sick with the knowledge that they were being used to lure their father into a murderous trap.

_Continued in Chapter 2…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 2**

Sam did not look at Dean as they took their weapons from the Impala's trunk and double-checked them even though they gleamed as if just plucked from the assembly line and had already triple-checked them before driving out here. Almost uniquely, both brothers were wearing their toughest hiking boots, ankle, knee, wrist and elbow sports 'support bandages' plus shin guards and as much padding as they could without compromising their speed and manoeuvrability. Not that they intended any animal to get so close but better safe than sorry.

Instead of his usual leather coat, however, Dean was wearing his short, waist length denim jacket, because Dean, who had lightning reflexes, had clumsily slopped orange juice all down his coat and the top of a pair of jeans at breakfast and so the leather coat was currently at Westlake's small dry-cleaning service.

Sam's worry had gone up another notch and stayed there because Dean was unusually accepting of Sam's hovering 'mother hen' routine, when normally he would have been sarcastically snapping at his younger brother's 'chick-flick soppiness'. But he knew better than to suggest – to even _hint_ – that Dean wasn't up to this job. Dean was rarely provoked to true rage against _Sam_, but that would push every button he had all at once. '_So ignore the big black suitcases under my eyes and my dishwater-grey face_'; Sam sighed within himself.

Leaving the car as close to the shrubbery as possible to lessen the chances of anyone noticing it and coming to investigate, though it was unlikely on this unmapped back road, they walked up the narrow, winding trail into the woods, silent and grim in the knowledge they were probably going to have to kill more wildlife.

As far as the human ear could pick up sound, there was none. No birds, no insects, no rustling. It was as if any and every creature larger than a grasshopper had gone on vacation at the same time. There wasn't even a breeze to stir the leaves or twigs of the foliage.

After ten minutes, they came to what they were looking for and exchanged grim glances. At the bottom of a small slope the hiking trail forked, one going left and one going right. It didn't really matter, as the two trails eventually merged into one again about a quarter of a mile further ahead; the left hand trail was slightly steeper but straighter, curving slightly like a 'c', while the right hand trail was wider and easier but meandered more like an 's'. However, the evidence pointed to the Ghoul being holed up in a small cave that old local maps showed as being present in a crag that was situated in the land sandwiched between the two trails, a few hundred yards from where the trails merged again.

Cliff Notes: they had no choice but to separate. Yes, a high-risk strategy, but continuing together up one trail was pointless when it gave the Ghoul opportunity to set a few possessed possums on them and slip away down the _other_ trail to either escape or loop round and come at them from behind. By each taking a trail, they could approach the Ghoul's lair in a pincer-movement. Yes, again, the two trails were not really that far apart 'as the crow flies', but distances of mere inches became hugely significant in some situations and this was one.

His face taut, Dean instructed curtly, "I'll go left, you take right. Meet you at the top."

Sam fought the urge to click his heels together and bark out, '_Ja voll' Mein Fuhrer!_' as Dean marched up the left trail like his butt was on fire before Sam could try and suggest that maybe he should go left and Dean take the longer but easier path. Ah, Dean - born in Kansas, but, just like Dad, spent most of his life living in the State of Denial…usually in Absolute County.

Okay…Sam slowly made his way up the right hand trail, his finger curled around the trigger of the gun he was 'cradling' in the crook of his folded arms, which, unless you were a _bona fide _law enforcement officer, was a highly illegal Glock18C machine pistol fitted with the extended 33-round magazine of the heaviest calibre bullets available. Neither brother was carrying a hunting rifle, though both carried shotguns across their backs as back-up. A hunting rifle was only effective from a distance against stationery prey, not something large and ferocious heading towards you at a fast clip; while a shotgun at close range would do enough damage to stop a bear in its tracks, it was limited to two barrels, not good in an 'oops there's _three_' scenario. Again each of them was carrying his handgun in the back of his waistband as a back-up to the shotgun back-up, but again the big bad Ghoul possessed beast would have to achieve a major invasion of personal space for the handgun to be effective, which was _not_ the desired scenario.

The machine pistol was designed to lay down an intense burst of fire and would empty its entire magazine into something as long as you continued to press the trigger; nothing with the possible exception of an exceptionally large male flathead grizzly bear – very uncommon in this area - could withstand the hail of bullets without being practically torn in two. The brothers' usual ammunition was rock-salt loaded handguns or shotguns, and Sam felt peculiarly unclean carrying around the murderous weapon.

True, Dean carried his favoured Glock-17 semi-automatic handgun even now in his waistband and the Impala's truck held both a Springfield Armoury .45 and the famous 'old time' Colt 1911, but neither were deliberately, ferociously lethal in the manner of the Glock18C and other machine pistol makes. Practically all humanity's scientific advances had a beneficial as well as a destructive application, with the glaring exception of the firearm. A gun had no other function, no other use in existing, than to kill living things, and the machine pistol was a grotesque elaboration of that, not designed just to kill, but to kill brutally.

The weapons were not a part of the arsenal secreted in the Impala's trunk, but realising what they were up against after their first encounter with the infected animals, they had been able to _hire_ the two guns (including a supply of the extended 31- and 33-round magazines) for three days at a surprisingly reasonable rate from an arms dealer.

A hardcore criminal used to selling his wares to urban street-gangs, Mafiosi, illegal immigrant gang-masters, drug barons and the like, the gun-runner had fortunately been amused rather than affronted by the unusual request to 'hire' from what he, lacking perceptiveness, saw only as two rather 'weird' kids. His amusement at their bold request had only increased when they admitted their surname _and_ confessed to being distant cousins of Oliver Winchester of Repeating Rifle fame, and so had been expansively inclined to tolerance.

Up ahead, Sam could hear faint, suspicious rustling, courtesy of the windless day, zero insect activity and the Ghoul's limited brainpower. The Ghoul was incapable of any other strategy than frontal attack-and-smash, and this was therefore the way its infected pawn animals also attacked, regardless of the fact that in nature, the bears, wolves, cougars and so on stalked intended prey and tried to sneak up on it. The instant he went around the bend – no pun intended – and the infected animals saw him, they would be triggered to charge.

Hefting the Glock, Sam took a controlling breath and picking up his pace, barrelled up the trail as fast as possible. An instant later, three wolves and two foxes hurtled out of the undergrowth at him with their eyes glowing ruby-red and fangs bared in a reckless charge; Sam fired the machine pistol in two short, controlled bursts and all five animals were cut down ten feet away from him. His hatred of the Ghoul increased as he saw that they were all young animals in their prime, that should have been gambolling somewhere with their cubs, not under a fatal supernatural compulsion to rip Sam apart. He swallowed back bile as, even horribly wounded, the surviving wolf writhed across the ground towards him on its front paws and belly, insane gaze fixed on his throat as it was forced to obey the Ghoul's command to kill regardless of its agony. Pulling out his Beretta, Sam fired one shot into the animal's skull, ending its suffering.

Figuring that subtlety at this point was a lost cause unless the Ghoul had suddenly been struck stone deaf, he yelled to reassure his brother, making it both statement and question, "Dean, OK!"

"Yo!" The answering call was faint but firm.

Quickly Sam tossed salt, gasoline and a lit match on the corpses after hastily pulling them into the centre of the trail, knowing that two consecutive nights of heavy rain meant it unlikely the woodland would catch alight. He prepared to continue but any notion that the Ghoul had not heard him was brutally disabused within a minute – as he approached the end of the trail, there was a cacophony and Sam found himself faced with a group of animals charging towards him. He fired the Glock again and again, sickened as animal after animal was cut down but those behind continued without slowing; out of sight but nearby he could hear identical rapid gunfire that meant Dean was under similar attack.

Some ancient instinct made him duck down and he felt rather than saw a heavy shape disturb his hair. Surging back up even as he ejected the empty first magazine and chambered the second, Sam witnessed a large lynx overshoot where his head and neck had been a moment before to collide with a black bear cub. Sam set his heels and simply spun around in a complete circle, firing the Glock continuously until the second magazine was exhausted and again ejecting the magazine and chambering the third – his penultimate magazine.

But the ground was littered only with dead and grievously wounded animals. Gorge rose and not fighting the urge, Sam vomited at the carnage. Aware that he was crying and not giving a damn, he ended the suffering of the still living beasts and made a salt and gasoline funeral pyre, hearing the intermittent bark of Dean's handgun indicating he too was doing the same.

Wiping away tears, with the hem of his shirt, Sam swallowed and made sure his voice was steady as he called out again, "Dean, I'm nearly through!"

"Yeah! I'm – _Aaaagh!_"

Dean's yell was drowned out by a burst of rapid gunfire but by that point Sam was running flat out towards his brother's position as the noise abruptly and ominously stopped to be replaced by an even more frightening silence.

"DEAN! DEAN!"

Pelting along heedless of anything that might bar his way up to and including the Ghoul, Sam simply ran straight through the undergrowth that formed the shortest distance between his and Dean's location, bursting out onto the other trail at a dead run.

And skidding to a halt in terror and horror. Nearby another funeral pyre consumed the bodies of infected animals, trees and bushes showing the damage wreaked by bullets, but Sam was oblivious. On the grass verge to the left of the trail was Dean's denim jacket, ripped and blood-smeared, as if something had grabbed the back of it with big claws and dragged/torn it off. Dean's Glock18C lay inches away on flattened grass, but of his brother there was no sign.

Fighting a gag reflex, Sam moved numbly to the grass verge and looked at…nothing. By some optical illusion the trail gave the impression of being lined by trees, but as you got close you could see that the ground fell away down a steep, tree-dotted slope to end in a deep, fast-flowing stream. There was a wavy line of flattened grass and torn-out flower stalks and a large red smear on a protruding rock at the edge of the stream, but no Dean.

"DEAN!" He gave the call all his lung power, but there was no response.

Sam didn't hesitate, and didn't give a damn that he was giving the Ghoul time to escape. Picking up the other Glock, he slid on his ass down the wet grass to the stream edge, looking right and left, but there was no sign of Dean nor any visible indication on the other bank as far as he was able to see in either direction of Dean clambering out of the water.

Heedless of the freezing water or ruining his boots, Sam splashed downstream; if Dean had been unconscious – Sam refused to countenance any more serious possibility for his failure to answer - he would be unable to fight the flow of the water. The stream was icy and fully of pot-holes and rocks, causing Sam to stumble along as the water went from ankle to knee deep within a distance of inches and back again. But there no sign of Dean in the water or out of it. After ten minutes, Sam came to a halt at the sight of a small weir that beavers had made a dam across. If he had been unconscious, Dean should be right in front of him blocked from further travel downstream by the weir but there was nothing there.

Which meant that Dean had left the water before this point, or been conscious enough at the start to make his way upstream, but for some reason was unable to respond loudly enough to make Sam hear him, because he'd suffered some injury to his throat or….

_No_.

Sub-vocally cursing in every language he knew plus several ancient tongues most people hadn't spoken in millennia, Sam scanned the banks of the stream. There was no flattened grass or damaged shrubbery, but he was so intent that the beaver made it to within five feet of him, it was only out of his peripheral vision that he glimpsed it waddling towards him with its huge gnawing front teeth bared and the familiar red film over its eyes. Pulling out his handgun he fired one shot into its head and then had to grab a foot to stop it going over the weir. Tossing the corpse onto the bank, Sam burned it, then as fast as he could, made his way back up to where Dean had fallen in.

Instead of going upstream, Sam clambered back up the slope, carrying a fully-loaded Glock18C in each hand with an expression of distilled fury on his face. Somewhere his brother was lying badly injured and probably unconscious – therefore defenceless - in a wood polluted by a flesh-eating monster; annihilate the monster, and he could look for his brother without the terror of the Ghoul finding Dean first.

_Continued in Chapter 3…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 3**

There was a faint, very sweet smell that quickly became overpowering to the point of nauseating.

Sam didn't even slow down as he stalked into a scrubby clearing where a narrow fissure marked the entrance to a cramped cave and swarms of flies hovered around the entrance that was daubed in blood and gore. He didn't even see it as he started firing instantly; the Ghoul had kept some pawns in reserve, including an entire wolf pack and two full-grown black bears that surged towards him as the Ghoul-thing came hissing out of the cave at the rear, talons and fanged maw encrusted with the rotting remnants of probably every kill it had ever made.

It moaned eerily, its breath so vile it was a putrid yellow haze as it attempted to make an escape, but against the onslaught of both machine pistols everything in Sam's path was cut down. The Ghoul shrieked in rage and pain as several bullets hit it centre mass and it stretched its mouth incredibly wide, but Sam scrambled back and away from the poisonous exhalations, still firing until there was just the dry click-click of the triggers.

The Ghoul snarled and stumbled forward with its talons outstretched but Sam had been waiting for such a move and simply dropped the machine pistols to the ground before pulling out his reloaded Beretta and firing again and again into the thing's face and upper torso. Almost literally decapitated by the impacts the Ghoul finally collapsed but Sam emptied his gun into it.

He released the gun from trembling hands as the report of the last shot died away. Some of the creatures in the clearing still moved spasmodically and he caught glimpses of four creatures – a bear, fox and two feline shapes, one gold and one black – scrambling away into the woods as the death of their enslaver freed them from the compulsion to attack humans rather than run.

Unwilling to touch the abomination, Sam used the last clip for his handgun to kill those animals still alive and then brought each body to be thrown on top of the Ghoul. Yet again, he salted and lit the funeral pyre, then took the last of the salt and gasoline to the mouth of the cave. He could not enter – the stench made him feel physically sick again – and the glimpse he had of shattered bones and lumps of decomposing flesh was enough. Liberally spraying the salt as far into the cave as it would go, he splashed gasoline with similar vigour and then tossed in the lit match.

He didn't stop to admire his handiwork, trusting in the wet foliage to prevent a forest fire once the corpses had been consumed. Still running on adrenaline, Sam went back to the stream, ignoring his soaking jeans as he forged upstream, calling his brother's name every thirty seconds and listening desperately for any reply.

Nothing…there was no answer, but no sign that Dean had ever come this way either. It was as if Dean had fallen down the slope and simply vanished as he landed in the stream. But…Sam clung to one certainty – Dean had to have been alive _and _conscious when he went in. If he'd been unconscious or…worse…he would have been washed downstream until he hit the weir as flotsam, but he hadn't been there and there wasn't time for the evidence to have been washed away if the deranged beaver had…attacked the b-…attacked Dean.

Therefore, he must have been conscious enough to a) clamber out of the stream before he reached the weir or b) make his way against the current upstream, at least for a few minutes. Somehow Dean had managed to exit the stream without leaving as noticeable a trail as when he'd fallen in, but maybe he was lying in a hidden dip barely inches from the stream bank.

Turning again, Sam scoured down the far bank and looked into the deeper woods on that side on the theory that the injured and possibly disoriented Dean would instinctively have tried to put as much distance between himself and the Ghoul as possible until Sam could find him.

Sam ruthlessly ignored his increased stumbling and the persistent shivering of his body until he realised that it was the fading of both daylight and solar heat which were as responsible as shock and exhaustion. It was getting dark and he was out of ammunition in a wood with four large predators still infected by the Ghoul. He stopped when he passed yet again the spot where Dean had fallen into the water, his breathing shaky with distress and weariness. The emotionalism was intense, but rationally he knew he was no good to Dean if he found him only to collapse alongside him.

While the four animals were still infected, without the Ghoul to compel their suicidal killing mania, it was unlikely that they would do anything except find somewhere to sleep for the night. Instead of being totally psychopathic, the death of the Ghoul enslaver had made them revert to a state comparable to the early stages of rabies – apparently healthy and back in control of their natural instincts, the bear, fox and presumably two cougars would avoid mankind if possible.

Hating himself but knowing he was making the logical choice, Sam returned to the Impala, stumbling and staggering the last quarter-mile from a combination of emotional trauma, physical exhaustion and simple inability to see in the rapidly encroaching darkness. Driving the Impala within the prescribed limits as he was incapable of dealing with any officious deputy out to make a speeding ticket quota right now, Sam got back to the motel and got inside his and Dean's room, locking the door and with hands that shook with fatigue reinforcing the salt and cat's eye 'circumference' he and Dean had created around the room. He wanted nothing more than to collapse on the bed but knew better; in this state he could die of hypothermia in the night – he hadn't been able to feel his feet and lower legs for hours.

His limbs feeling like someone had magically changed them into lead weights, Sam pulled off his boots and stripped himself naked, stepping out of his clothing where it fell and shuffling into the bathroom; his toes and feet were utterly white. Carefully Sam ran water into the bath, making sure it was barely tepid, then pulled down the toilet lid and sat on it as he placed both feet in the water, tears instantly springing to his eyes; his feet were so cold that even tepid water felt hot. Despite his exhaustion he kept repeating the process, gradually making the water hotter until it was hot enough to take a bath and no longer hurt his feet when immersed.

Pulling himself up off the toilet seat and holding on to the wall for strength, Sam crawled not into his bed but Dean's and wrapped the covers around himself to breathe in his brother's scent, sending Dean a silent apology and plea for forgiveness even as blackness swamped him and he knew no more.

_Continued in Chapter 4…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

**Author's Note – my dearly loved granddad has passed away; please be patient in the understanding that there will be some delay before this story is updated. **


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 4**

At first light, Sam levered himself out of the bed, every joint and muscle feeling as if it had seized up overnight. Hunched over like a nonagenarian, he made his way into the bathroom and simply stood under the hottest shower he could stand to loosen up his body as much as possible.

He dressed in the warmest clothing he could, then went out to the bait & tackle store and without blinking at the cost bought waterproof pants and fishing boots that he donned back at the motel room. Stocking a backpack with water, spare ammunition and the Winchester-style First Aid kit that differed wildly from the AMA version (they for instance did not usually contain Holy Water, exorcism chants and powerful mystically medicinal herbs), he set out in the Impala and drove back to the road/track. Hoisting the backpack, he took a hunting rifle, as now it was probable that the four infected animals would stay as far away as possible, with his shotgun across his back and his handgun in his waistband as yesterday.

He went straight up the trail to the cave, which was now a hollow of charred ash, and picked up the two Glock18Cs from the ground, looping them onto his backpack. They were 'due back' tomorrow and Sam would have to take them - once he found Dean the last thing his injured brother would need whilst recuperating was to face the wrath of a seriously pissed psycho.

Leaving the clearing, Sam tramped down the other trail and went back into the stream, his lips tight with determination and anxiety. Wading straight across to the other bank, he aimed downstream and began to almost 'inch' his way along the stream's edge, scouring the opposite slope for any hint Dean had exited the water and managed to crawl up the slope, deeply grateful for the first time that Dad had insisted on teaching both him and Dean how to hunt meat for the pot. He was no Apache, but he could still follow a trail; his acutely motivated eyes considered the potential in every bent stalk, scraped patch of bark, or depression in the ground; but none were a match with Dean.

A flash of russet ahead made him focus. A large dog-fox was drinking in the stream. Actually _in _the stream; Sam eased his rifle off his shoulder and aimed it at the animal. Right now the four escapees of the Ghoul were the only non-insect wildlife around here, and even if not, there was no mistaking that this fox was the right one. Animals approached river banks cautiously and lapped delicately, whereas as this fox had simply waded into the water and was guzzling it like Stanford's star quarterback quaffing beer after a home-team win.

Sam sighted on the fox but hesitated briefly; he had come equipped with salt, gasoline and matches almost automatically, but not an excessive supply. The four infected mammals were a distant second on his priority list right now. On the other hand, if he took this opportunity it was one less to deal with over the next couple of days, which meant he could spend his time looking after Dean and making sure he firmly squashed his brother's usual idiotically macho 'It's just a little internal haemorrhaging, I could run a marathon!' nonsense. Though of course, as soon as Dean was fit enough to physically dominate his little brother again, payback would be a bitch…in some ways Dean would _never _grow up beyond the age of about three. Still, no matter how much Dean was always that bit stronger, _Sam_ would always have the _height_, proving that God was both just _and_ possessed of a wicked sense of humour.

He rustled but the fox didn't even look up from drinking; Sam fired one shot to the head and then splashed through the water to catch the tail before the fox could float downstream; he salted and burned the corpse on a small nearby flat rock, and moved on as a glance at his watch showed it was nearly midday.

A hundred yards further down, he saw a splotch of black colour on a small round rock. Mud? Moss? Or…?

His throat constricted as he took in the scene. The black was dried blood. Next to it were shallow grooves in the rock – claw marks, and the deep depression of a large animal's paw. Sam was dimly aware that his sudden inability to feel anything was his brain's self-defence mechanism, but vaguely he was grateful for being able to study the signs analytically not hysterically. The grass blades and plant stalks had sprung back fully upright, and the claw and paw marks showed that they had been made at a very similar time to the blood smear...so whatever had crawled out of the stream at this point had only been on the bank for minutes at the most before something else had come and…taken it…else the grass would have been much more crushed and flattened.

Sam slowly moved up the slope. More splotches of blood and paw prints, but scattered in a wildly erratic zigzagging path up the incline away from the stream; if human the tracks would have read like a man staggering home after a three-day drunk…or if something large and heavy was being pulled with difficulty up the slope.

Dreading each step but relentlessly moving, Sam followed the spoor away from the stream, through the trees and higher up, finding himself trying to estimate the quantity of blood accounted for by each splotch. A human had eight pints, each smear was probably about five fluid ounces…

He came out of the trees and stopped. There was a small plateau of bare rock here and the trail vanished. Sam stepped onto the flat rock and looked around keenly. Last night there had only been a light shower, but it would have been sufficient to wash away a lot of signs unprotected by foliage. There must be some way to determine which way –

The rock was brown and weathered with age, apart from a spot about three feet away, where the rock was fresh and white. Slowly Sam advanced and found himself on the lip of a ledge overlooking a sheer drop into a deep pool of mercury-grey water, some sort of side channel. The rock plateau was not solid granite or basalt, but chalkier, like limestone, and at some point in the past forty-eighty hours, a chunk of the edge had collapsed.

On the edge of the break was a dark black smear and deep, straight white grooves were clearly visible as if something had clawed desperately for a foothold but had been unable to find one. In his head Sam suddenly had an image of a cougar-like shape hauling and mauling an unconscious Dean to this point and the sudden collapse of the ledge and two forms plunging into the water, the heavy weight of an injured large feline pressing Dean down into the depths, pinning him to the bottom of the pool…

_Continued in Chapter 5…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 5**

Sam slowly rolled his head from side to side to ease the crick in his neck. His butt was numb from sitting so long on unyielding rock and he slowly straightened his spine and eased his arms from where they had been wrapped around his drawn-up knees. He was tired, and hungry.

Blinking in confusion at the position of the sun, he stood up and stretched his lean form, his watch informing him that it was late afternoon. He'd been napping up here for hours…

He shifted and saw claw marks gouged in rock and the agony doubled him over; he collapsed to his knees clutching his midriff, moaning piteously as grief ripped him apart and his mind remembered why he had been huddled rocking back and forth on a sunny plateau for nearly four hours. A part of his soul had been ripped away; it used to answer to 'Dean'.

After an eternity his fingers unclenched. Slowly he raised his head to reveal a face swollen and blotchy and tear-soaked. Gravity was suddenly as dense as wet concrete and for several yards he shuffled on hands and knees, levering himself up right by virtue of a sapling.

_Dean_.

Was dead.

His body was probably at the bottom of the pool, snared in reeds or trapped beneath the body of the cougar/predator that had dragged him from the stream bank.

Sam tripped over an exposed root and fell hard, scraping the palms of his hands. The effort was Herculean but he picked himself up, jarred out of the cocooning fugue state. There were ropes in the trunk of the Impala but nothing resembling diving gear so he could retrieve – not Dean, anymore. The Body.

_Dean_.

Noise ahead, growling. For a moment Sam's pace hurried to meet it, to embrace, to goad its claws into ripping out his throat, but after a moment he stopped. Dean needed to be buried properly and honourably and someone needed to inform Dad. But after that, he could have a final meal of Beretta lead; Dean had always made it clear he expected Sam to continue without him, while betraying in a thousand unconscious ways that if the situation was reversed and Sam died, Dean would only live long enough to pick up the nearest gun. Did Dean really think Sam was going to follow that diktat any more than he'd ever followed any of the others?

The rifle was in his hands almost a comforting weight. When it came to putting the barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger, a hunting rifle would soundly do the trick.

Sam rounded a curve in the trail. Directly in front of him a cougar tried to pounce on a baby rabbit that should have been easy prey but fluffed it and hit the grass as the terrified snack bounded away. The cougar got to its feet and stood, its head swaying from side to side as it mewled in confusion. Sam could still experience pity; the Ghoul's mystical infection had irreparably damaged its pawns' minds; the four animals would have slowly starved to death or been killed without the natural survival skills destroyed when the monster took control.

Dull gold eyes glanced at him and passed on by as it failed to recognise its most dangerous enemy. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

He shot the cougar and checked his supplies. If he was sparing, he should have enough salt and accelerant to take care of the bear and the other cat. Even if he ran back to the car and drove as fast as he could, it was too late now to hire scuba gear and get back before the light was completely gone. Whilst there were a few days grace it wouldn't be long before other creatures began to move back into their usurped habitat where searching for _a _bear and _a _cat amongst a lot of look-alikes would be impossible. He could practically hear Dean ordering him to forget the retrieval and finish the Hunt, but then Dean had always been the consummate Hunter, he lived for it in a way not even Dad did, much less Sam…He _had_ lived for it.

The passage of time became meaningless and his brain idled in neutral as he shut out everything except tracking, but he checked in a detached way and knew an hour had passed when he found fresh bear scat and ten minutes after that he found the bear resting on the stream bank with a familiarly unnatural confusion. Something had taken a gouge out of its flank and at least two legs and its fur was matted. It swung its head from side to side in a manner reminiscent of old-time zoo animals driven neurotic by cramped concrete cages.

It wasn't full grown, so Sam was able to eke out his salt and gasoline to have enough left to take care of the second cat, which he would have to find rapidly, as it would be dusk in another hour-and-a-half. Leaving the burning animal behind him, Sam picked up the pace and attempted to get a fix on the other cougar/lynx/bobcat's track. The other three had all been in or in close proximity to the stream. Perhaps a residual craving for water might be operative? Yet again he began to follow the stream down towards the weir.

He reached a hillock and paused as he saw movement near the weir. He peered more intently, aware that the slight breeze and slowly gathering dusk was turning harmless shadows into living shapes. For a moment he saw nothing and then something solid and black crept out of the undergrowth and lapped at the water nearest the bank. Stocky and undoubtedly feline in shape, like the bear the cat had gashes in flank and legs.

Sam raised the rifle and sighted it on the cat's head, making sure of the shot and waiting for it to shift position slightly. The shot would have to knock the cat back onto the bank instead of in the water, as from this distance there would be no way for Sam to reach the corpse before it drifted downstream. He moved his stance and the cat surprisingly heard and looked up. Sam's finger curled around the trigger and he sighted into its right eye.

Its eyes…

Through the rifle scope Sam could see them as clearly as if he had been an ophthalmologist peering at a patient from mere centimetres of distance. The cat's eyes were the light green of a hazel-tree leaf in the fall when it was getting that first faint sheen of autumnal bronze; each iris was rimmed in a narrow band of antique gold and there were flecks of black jade, citrine and amber in the green of the irises.

Sam knew those eyes; they were more familiar to him than the pair looking back from the mirror each morning.

"_DEAN!_" The cry was torn from a throat raw with grief and tight with disbelieving shock.

And the cat looked straight at him for an eternal second.

Then it leapt ten feet into the bushes from a standing start and was gone even as Sam instinctively snapped up the rifle but did not fire…could not fire…

"_Dean?_"

_Continued in Chapter 6…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 6**

Sam pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Even now five hours later he was still reeling.

He had no memory of getting to the Impala and driving back to the motel, only a vague awareness of a furious out-loud argument he'd had with…him…about the fact that the cat could not be Dean/was Dean.

To say he was at a loss was colossal understatement. He'd scrutinised every ink spot in Dad's journal and come up blank searching for _something_, then he'd turned to their meagre supply of 'source/reference' books and his trusty laptop's invaluable Internet connection.

In each case, the information was the same. When it came to supernatural evil, Ghouls were at the bottom of the heap. For some sub-species, pond scum was an _aspiration_. While the Ghoul may have been able to control non-sentient mammals, the awesome ability to transmogrify, namely change Being A into Being B, was as beyond their league as a newt understanding that the Earth was merely one of nine planets in a solar system in the backwater of an insignificant galaxy et cetera.

Not even Meg Masters' Daevas demons had had the ability to change Fred Smith into Urk-Urk the Performing Seal. Apparently Evil wasn't much on the transmogrifying, not because it wasn't a neat party trick, but because the act of changing Fred to Urk-Urk was, in their philosophy, incestuously related to the act of _creating_, which was way too reminiscent of God with a capital G, _the_ Almighty deity, the one that permitted lesser demigods with minimum patience.

But even if the Ghoul hadn't done it, Dean turning into a large cat was surely not a coincidence? When had Dean turned into the cat? _Something_ had attacked him, for he certainly hadn't been yelling for nothing.

And why had he run from Sam? Sam had seen the intelligence in the eyes looking back at him; it was not the feline formerly known as Dean. The cat _was_ still Dean. It had known who Sam was…so what the hell was Dean doing running away?

And what, exactly, was his brother? The body shape was wrong for a cougar, whether Western, North or South American species, and too big for either a lynx or a bobcat. Sam broke away from the laptop to only to swill down bitter instant coffee and the junk candy snacks they had had to hand and to take a leak.

Returning he searched the 'Net on cats and got about a million sites, so changed it to large cats and clicked on one that was a sort of 'predatory cat fact-file'…Lions, tigers, ligers…_what?_. Oh, Ligers were a cross between lions and tigers. They were sterile like mules, which were a cross between horses and donkeys, because in the same way that horses and donkeys were both equines but had different numbers of chromosomes, so too lions and tigers were 'big cats' with different numbers of chromosomes.

Jaguars, cheetahs, cougars, lynx, panthers…_and we have a winner_.

There were images of various Animal Rescue Centre big cats. Halfway down one page there was a picture of a panther lounging on a tree branch. Its eyes gazed directly at the camera, a pale aquamarine/ice green. Replace aquamarine-green with gold-flecked hazel-green, and the photograph _was_ Dean.

Sam read the blurb. Panthers were not a separate species, but melanistic leopards. He was no zoologist, but Sam knew that apart from the odd interloping Siberian tiger in the far, frozen North, jaguars and cougars were the largest feral cats indigenous to the entire American continent from the Canadian North to Cape Horn at the tip of Argentina. There had been lions and sabre-tooth cats, but millennia ago. The idea that Dean being transformed into a non-indigenous feline was some sort of coincidence or fluke was scornfully laughed out of his brain within a second.

Leopards were the smallest of the four widely recognised 'big cat' species, but size was relative – when it came to fangs and claws, you weren't particularly interested in the minor size difference between a lion and a leopard if there was nothing protective between you and it. Leopards were also the only one of the big cat species to have both colour variations. White lions and white tigers existed in the wild, but not black variations.

There was the Snow Leopard, which had white fur and black spots, the usual African or Asian leopard, which was gold fur and black spots, and the commonly termed 'black panther', which had black fur and black spots. Apparently you could tell a leopard from a jaguar because a leopard's markings were solid black spots like those of a Dalmatian dog, whereas a jaguar's were broader like rosettes rather than solid. Briefly Sam had to wonder what had happened to the person who first got close enough to notice this difference.

Leopards were distinguishable by being stocky and compact rather than long and lean as most felines tended towards. They had shorter legs, stocky bodies and powerful jaws and shoulders. A full grown leopard could cache nearly its own bodyweight of dead roebuck or gazelle in a tree; they were capable of leaping ten feet vertically and up to twenty feet horizontally from a standing start and were fast sprinters.

They were also considered the most dangerous of the big cat species. Leopards were loners by nature (check), and were particularly lethal because they combined high intelligence (check) with not only superbly agile reflexes (check) but also volatile unpredictability (check); they were also mercurial (check) and moody of temperament (check). Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sam had to smirk – it was as if someone had used Dean's personality as a template for an entire species. On the website one zoologist wryly described them as 'every angry adolescent you've ever met'.

So now for the big one – what the hell was he going to do? Dean had been injured like the bear, and was possibly suffering a head injury or for some asinine and dumb-ass sense of nobility was trying to 'protect' Sam. Or was, understandably, still in serious shock and full-on freak out mode; one minute you're a demon Hunter extraordinaire about to off a Ghoul and the next you're an overgrown Tiddles?

The candy suddenly sat heavy in Sam's stomach as he thought of Dean, alone and terrified out there in the woods. Dean had no way of knowing the Ghoul was dead.

It was time to get his ass in gear and rescue Dean.

_Continued in Chapter 7…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 7**

Although, was it wrong to want to rescue someone just so you could kill the jerk?

Sam pondered this question, aware he was grinding his teeth as a twig prodded him in the side of the neck. If he never saw this wood again it would be too soon.

Sleep had not been an option, and once again first light found him heading out. This time he was only carrying the barest amount of salt, gasoline and a cigarette lighter. The fishing boots and waterproofs were exchanged for his jeans and his strongest hiking boots.

First things first though; by six-thirty he had had the Glock18C machine pistols stripped, cleaned and reassembled and was his way to the arms dealer's property. He had been obsequious in his thanks as only a man surrounded by stone-killers could be, acutely aware that if the man decided to take Dean's absence as a personal slight, he was toast. Fortunately, he was able to explain away Dean's non-presence by sheepishly relating a fable that Dean overenthusiastically mixed tequila with Tex-Mex and was currently a pitiful, green-faced heap on the bathroom floor who moved only to hang his head over the toilet bowl for the umpteenth time. He had flattered the arms dealer by stating he would never dream of inflicting Dean on him in that state.

Escaping somehow intact, Sam had returned to Westlake and been forced to do a quick B & E into the nearest ranger's office to purloin various items such as a compass and a decent map of the terrain before filling up the Impala's tank and driving to the familiar back road and setting off again up the trail.

That had been four hours ago.

He had tramped what felt like every inch of the woods, calling his brother's name as loudly as he could every two minutes. His shouts had echoed eerily in the still-empty silence, though he heard the occasional chirrup of a grasshopper and a couple of bees had droned past, showing that wildlife was slowly beginning to trickle back.

Dean wasn't following the script. He _should _have been in front of Sam about five minutes after Sam started yodelling, but was pulling some sort of Scarlet Pimpernel riff.

Sam had gone through worry and into anger. Had Dean's injuries been more extensive than the gashes had looked from a distance? But the fur through the rifle scope had been matted, as if the wounds had clotted and stopped bleeding. And the cat had reacted to the sound of Sam cocking the hunting rifle, even at a reasonable distance, so an inability to hear as a result of being knocked on the head wasn't Dean's problem. Similarly, if the head injury was severe enough to be serious, it would have incapacitated Dean before Sam had come across him the first time.

"I'm going to skin him!" Sam irately declared to the trees at large. "Yeah, I'm going to kick his ass back to Kansas and turn him into a throw-rug…_Deeee-eeen, I'm going to kill your furry fraternal ass if you don't come here!_"

Loudly declaiming increasingly improbable tortures he intended inflicting on his brother, Sam stomped his way to the small rock plateau above the pool, using its elevation as a lookout point and with the vague idea that if Dean could not for some reason hear Sam then he could at least see him. Taking a lungful of air, Sam again yelled his brother's name, hearing it fade away amongst the trees.

But then there was the rustle of shrubbery and

_Ohmygod_.

Sam froze.

Grizzly bears were uncommon in this area, but they were not unknown. This one was an adolescent male, since its size was merely humongous rather than gargantuan, probably attracted to an area strangely lacking in competing predators, but also denuded of food, until the bear had followed the tasty snack obligingly making the racket.

'_Oshitoshitoshitoshitgonnadiegonnadiegonnadiiiiiie_' actually came out as a strangled croak while Sam plundered his neurons for every scrap of fact and fantasy he'd ever heard or seen on the subject of the dreaded grizzly bear, but the précis of it all was a unanimous: SO LONG, SUCKER

If he could sidle to the edge of the ledge he could take the risk of jumping in the hope the pool wasn't just a three-foot deep puddle with serious delusions of grandeur. His only other option was to 'frighten the bear off with noise'. Oh yeah, in the left corner we have 130lbs of squeaking, quaking terror, and in the right corner we have 2000lbs of hungry muscle, _noooo_ contest!

But needs must when the devil drives and all that. "GET AWAY!"

The bear didn't twitch.

"G'WAN! GET AWAY!" Sam yelled loudly and as angrily as he could.

Irritated by the din its lunch was making, the bear opened its cavernous mouth and prepared to run down the spindly man-treat.

"GET!" Desperately Sam scooped up a pebble and threw it straight at the bear, where it bounced of its forehead.

That got a reaction, but not the desired one; completely uninjured but irritated the bear rose up on its hind-legs and gave the trademark coughing roar of intent.

Sam backed away, aware he was making faint whimpering sounds in his throat. There was no way in hell he could outrun it and –

The bear roared in shock and rage as something big and black dropped from the branch of the nearest tree and landed on its neck, digging claws deep into fur and burying long fangs in the bear's shoulder.

The bear staggered from the surprise impact and twisted, throwing off the other predator; a large black feline landed agilely between the bear and its prey, screaming eerily and spitting in fury. The bear roared back, infuriated that the other predator was trying to snatch its prize, and charged, but the cat made an incredible vertical leap and completely somersaulted in mid-air to land on the bear's back again and slash with teeth and claws.

Scrabbling on the ground Sam snatched up as many small rocks and pebbles as he could and hurled them one after the other at the bear's sensitive nose, pocking its face with the projectiles. Its easy meal turned into a battle and facing a two-pronged attack from its intended prey and the challenging predator, the bear's nerve broke and it whirled and bolted, crashing through the trees loudly.

Abruptly all the adrenaline drained to Sam's ankles and his knees wobbled dangerously. Sheer willpower kept him upright as he looked across to where the panther, looking much the worse for wear, was slowly clambering up after being flung off a second time by the bear.

And then started to edge away.

"Dean!" Sam barked; he raised his rifle and sighted it threateningly, "I will shoot your ass if you move another inch!"

The panther's ears went flat and it twisted its head to look straight at Sam with entirely human eyes that were a mixture of fear, pain and defiance.

"Oh yes, I will…" Sam vowed.

Their eyes locked in the stare down, but the panther broke first and pressed itself towards the ground. But Sam knew Dean too well, and was not surprised when the cat made another extraordinary bound for cover.

So he pulled the trigger.

_Continued in Chapter 8…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 7**

Which, in retrospect, had been a stupid move, Sam acknowledged now, panting as he dumped 160lbs of cat on Dean's motel bed.

They were demon Hunters; they were killers, not trap-and-release guys. Taking the map and compass had not been any problem, but picking the rifle cabinet lock and lifting the tranquiliser gun and darts from the ranger's office had been a calculated risk. People got very upset when you purloined firearms, tranquiliser rifle or not, but a gun designed to incapacitate rather than kill (a paradox if ever there was one) did not feature in the Impala trunk's prodigious inventory – their arsenal was intended to stop the target dead in its tracks, the operative word being _dead_.

However, prepared for Dean to pull exactly such a stupid-assed stunt as making another dash for it – what in hell did Dean seriously think Sam was going to do to him, for crying out loud? – Sam had had no other option unless he wanted to take one of _their_ Winchester rifles. Like Dean had told him at the Roosevelt Asylum, the rock salt wouldn't kill the panther, but it would be terribly painful and completely sabotage Sam's asylum exculpation argument of being controlled by the definitely unlamented Dr Sanford Ellicott, may he never rest in peace. Besides, that body shape was tough. A shotgun full of rock salt had knocked skinny Dean the human on his ass, but all that musculature was now concentrated centre mass and might just serve to anger Dean but not incapacitate him.

Dean had looked at him with huge, astonished eyes, then down at the dart protruding from its fur, but at that point Sam had shot him with another tranquiliser dart. The panther had turned anyway, but after a couple of steps had stumbled over its own paws, reeled to the left like Charlie Chaplin going for the laugh in a silent movie and keeled over unconscious.

At which point Sam had realised the drawbacks to his master plan.

Regardless of what a thousand movies or TV shows depicted nightly, carrying an unconscious human was only accomplished with ease by something with the upper body strength of King Kong. Anything that was 'dead' weight, from a sack of corn to a bag of potatoes to an unconscious person – or a tranquilised leopard – was awkward and tiring to carry any distance.

It took five minutes of grunting and manoeuvring before he was able to get the unconscious panther draped around his shoulders like a giant stole and stagger to his feet.

He had wobbled his way back down the trail to the Impala at a speed barely above a shuffle; and by the time he heaved Dean onto the hood he was drenched in sweat and blowing like a Kentucky Derby winner. Hauling Dean off the hood and hoisting him onto the back seat had been another fun-fest. Managing to get back to the motel was one thing. But in a town taut with tension from a series of gruesome wild animal attacks, did he really want a local eyeballing him heaving a large predatory cat into his hotel room? There would be a lynch-the-cat mob outside the door in a flat second.

Unlocking and leaving his motel room door ajar slightly, Sam had got back into the Impala and as soon as he was absolutely sure nobody was about he had hauled Dean out of the back like a hundredweight of potatoes and staggered into the motel room with him. Never again would he believe those scenes where the hero carried the unconscious best friend bodily from the fire/plane crash or romantically swept the heroine/new bride in his arms, not unless the person looked like Twiggy _after_ a crash diet.

Now he reached out and lifted a paw up and released it, whereupon it plopped straight back down onto the cover. Dean was definitely unconscious for a while yet. Locking the motel door behind him, Sam drove the Impala past the ranger's office and broke back in, sighing with relief when it became apparent that his thefts had not yet been discovered. Alert to the irony of being caught 'anti-burglarising' the place, he replaced the compass and map and as quickly as he could, picked the lock on the rifle cabinet again, replacing the tranquiliser gun and the unused darts. There was nothing he could do about someone discovering two darts missing but when they checked and found all the guns present it would just be chalked up to 'weird' and forgotten.

Wiping down his prints as much as he could, he left and went first to the dry cleaning service to pick up Dean's leather coat – the necessity of making a rapid 'run for it' departure from a town was never far from a Winchester's mind. Next he swung by the local mom-'n'-pop store where he bought fresh and copious First Aid supplies, but fortunately the store clerk didn't bat an eyelid as the town was used to the camping/hiking tourist trade and the over-cautious who went for a gentle stroll in the woods laden with more medical equipment than a Marine medic deploying to Iraq. She did however faintly twitch her nose and Sam scurried to the car aware of his dirty clothing and ripe odour.

Back at the motel he parked the Impala directly outside their room to the extent the front grill was practically kissing the windowsill and securely locked it, before going inside and locking the door as he dumped his purchases on his own bed. Dean remained still and unmoving, only the steady rise and fall of his left flank showing he was alive.

Sam ran a hand through his hair while he thought things through. Most important was treating Dean's injuries. Right now he looked more like a moth-eaten, cobweb covered rug you stumbled across in the attic than a sleek, Bagheera-the-panther, friend of man-cub Mowgli. His fur was sticky and matted where the slashes had clotted, he had at least a ton of grime and dust in his fur, and getting bucked off a bear twice in rapid succession would certainly not have improved the situation.

Fortunately, while this motel was as cheap as any they'd been in, there was apparently some sense of pride still lingering; the room was definitely shabby, but it and the fixtures and fittings were clean if worn, and though cramped, the bathroom did run to a shower and a bath. Going into the bathroom, Sam ran water into the bath so it was warm but not hot. He looked at himself distastefully in the mirror. The jacket and boots were salvageable, but his jeans and T-shirt were pretty much beyond redemption.

Sam simply stripped down to his Calvin Klein, putting the boots and jacket next to the toilet and rolling the other clothing into a bundle. Going back into the bedroom, he heaved Dean off the bed, nearly dropping him as all that fur unexpectedly tickled and carried the panther to the bath where he slid the inert form in. He used the rolled up bundle of ruined clothing to place Dean's head up out of the water, and as thoroughly as he could, rinsed of all the fur. He knew nothing about how big cats fared in water, though he remembered reading that tigers and leopards alone actually liked the stuff whereas lions, etc., did not.

The water almost instantly darkened to sludge, and Sam was forced to empty the bath and run it again three more times before the water stayed relatively clear and Dean's fur gradually changed from a sort of grey-muck to a gleaming jet-black shade. To Sam's relief it looked like the gashes, while deep, were healing without difficulty on their own, though it was hard to tell with all the fur. He picked up each of Dean's paws, but had no real idea of what he was looking for. He and Dean had never had any pets of their own for any length of time, other than the odd stray mutt they occasionally acquired for the duration that was left behind when Dad moved on. There was nothing obvious like a thorn sticking out so Sam let it go. He was also deeply grateful for Dean's unconscious state as he rinsed off the tail and the cat's prominent genitalia.

Laying towels on the floor tiles, he emptied the bath and yet again dragged Dean out of the bath onto the floor, where he patted him dry. For one wild moment, Sam's eyes were drawn to the hairdryer attached to the wall and he found that he was snickering to himself at the image of a fluffed-up Dean…who would finish the job the grizzly bear had intended. On the other hand, he couldn't leave Dean looking like he'd stuck two claws in a power outlet.

Returning to the bedroom, Sam found what he was looking for – the clothes brush he still carried in his holdall because, as he had loftily declared in response to Dean's sniping, he had standards. Unlike some hairbrushes, the bristles were soft. Kneeling down beside Dean and starting at the unconscious panther's head, he brushed all the fur down until it was smooth, even Dean's tail and balls, then got him over so he could brush the other side. The panther was completely black, except for one small tuft of hair on its chest about the size of a man's thumbnail, which was a faint white smudge – if Dean had been human it would have been on his chest about where the silver charm of his necklace usually rested.

Using the towel as an improvised sled, Sam pulled Dean back into the bedroom. He pulled off Dean's bedcover and shook it out to get rid of the dust and managed to get Dean back onto it. As he did so, an ear twitched, though for now Dean was still unconscious.

Going back into the bathroom, Sam cleaned his hiking boots and brushed down his jacket until they were presentable again, before he showered and cleaned the bathroom and redressed. By then it was dusk; he took the ruined clothing outside the motel room and dumped it all in the nearest trashcan.

Then he sat on his bed and just watched Dean intently. A few minutes later, the cat's paws moved slightly, followed by the tail. Over the next hour, the cat fidgeted more and more, moving its head and half opening its eyes. At this point, Sam said his brother's name clearly a few times, relaxing inwardly when the cat, however groggily, responded and turned its head towards him.

Eventually, the cat stretched mightily and gave a huge, face-swallowing yawn before looking at Sam.

"Dean," Sam smiled at him.

Before he could continue, the cat moved. Rolling to one side Dean made an incredible manoeuvre, sitting bolt upright not on his back legs but on his actual rump with his tail underneath him and his spine straight vertical as his front paws waved in midair. Sam had only a split-second to take in the bizarre posture before Dean overbalanced backwards off the end of his bed to hit the floor with a yowl and a thump.

_Continued in Chapter 9…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	9. Chapter 9

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 9**

"Dean!"

The panther hauled itself to its feet, shaking its head as Sam jumped up and came round the edge of the bed, swaying slightly as it looked at its front paws.

Sam got it – Dean had regained consciousness _without_ remembering he was no longerhuman. He had 'sat up' on the bed like a person but his body-shape wasn't arranged like that anymore and so he had promptly toppled over!

"Are you okay?" Sam asked anxiously.

The cat nodded its head as it pulled itself back up on to its/his – Dean's – bed and faced Sam.

"What happened to you?" Sam blurted as he sat on his own bed.

Cat-shaped face or no, Dean responded with an unmistakeable '_how-stupid-are-you?_' look and opened his mouth to reveal an impressive display of long, curved and very sharp incisors before snapping his mouth shut again.

Oh right: this was not a _talking_ toy. Dean couldn't speak except in growls, snarls and yowls…

_Nothing new there then_…Sam bit back the uncharitable thought as he admitted, "I'm totally freaked here; I have no idea what this is. I know this was way beyond anything the Ghoul could do and pretty much anything else for that matter. I can only think it might be some sort of side effect of the Ghoul losing control when we closed in on it, y'know?"

The cat made a rolling gesture with its haunches that Sam realised was a shrug of agreement/concession of the idea's merit.

"I mean, I couldn't find anything in Dad's journal or on the 'Net. Have you ever heard of anything like this happening to anyone else?"

Head-shake.

"If it is a fluke side effect…" Sam said hopefully, "…do you think it might…reverse itself on its own…real soon?"

Emphatic head nod.

"You really think so?" Sam knew Dean must be as clueless as he himself but as always found his brother's calm confidence – even in non-human form – reassuring.

Another emphatic head nod, then the panther reached out a paw and pressed against Sam's midriff. He looked down automatically then up into his brother's eyes. "What?"

The panther's face contorted and it dawned that Dean was pulling a face and rolling his eyes – or would have been doing had his facial muscles worked that way still.

"I don't get it-" Just as Sam uttered the words, his stomach rumbled hollowly. "You're hungry?"

Head nod.

Sam shook his head, "I don't think that's a good idea, I mean, there's no telling what eating will do to you –"

Dean cut him off with a low, menacing growl, the tip of his tail twitching left-right-left-right rapidly.

"Oh come on," Sam protested, "What am I supposed to do, go out and get us a couple of burgers like everything's normal? You're a cat!"

Dean made a yowling noise that Sam needed no special powers to accurately translate as: _make mine a double cheeseburger and hurry up! _

Well tough – cats, real cats, ate raw meat, water and milk. They did not tuck into Happy Meals or burger 'n' fries with a regular coke. It could make Dean ill – just because he _looked_ like a cat didn't mean internally everything was okay.

"I suppose I could bring back a bottle of milk –" Sam's musings were cut off abruptly as he found a large panther sitting on his chest and big white teeth bared inches from his face. "Dean! All-right," Sam wheezed as he tried to breathe, "a Big Mac…"

Satisfied that he'd made his point, Dean slid off, his eyes still glowing angrily.

Getting up and grabbing his wallet, Sam glared at his brother, "But if it makes you sick, _don't_ come meowing to me."

He stomped outside, mentally calling Dean a variety of names as he headed to the town's only burger bar. It wasn't either a Big Mac® or a Flame-grilled Whopper® as Westlake was too small for brand-name fast food joints like McDonald's, Burger King, KFC, Taco Bell, Denny's, Starbucks, and so forth. A local entrepreneur had captured the niche with a generic version that combined elements of them all – which was, as usual, far better value for your money and produced better quality food.

Tonight, however, Sam wasn't in the mood to appreciate it as he ordered two extra large double cheeseburgers and fries to go…with OJ. No matter how much Dean thought he was going guzzle coke, or Pepsi or 7Up or coffee, Sam was drawing a line. Orange juice wasn't typical for a panther either, but it was a much better alternative than testing a mystically feline digestive system with carbonated, chemically laden soft drinks or concentrated caffeine.

Returning to the motel room, he unwrapped the food and rolled his own eyes as Dean practically inhaled his meal and stuck his massive furry head in the corner of the box to get that last stubborn fry.

"Here," he pushed his own, suddenly unappealing meal across the bedspread. "I'm not hungry anyway." It was the truth; the reality that his elder brother was a _cat_ was finally sinking into his brain in a way that the previous frantic activity had prevented.

What if Dad called Dean's cell, as he had endeavoured to do more often since the whole Chicago nightmare?

Sam had never been any better at lying to John Winchester than he was at lying to Dean. How on Earth was he supposed to explain: _Oh by the way, I almost forgot, Dean got turned into a cat, weird huh? _

Dean inhaled the cheeseburger again, but then pushed the fries back with one paw, his eyes intent on Sam's face.

"Nah, it's okay," Sam pushed them back. _I couldn't keep it down anyway._

The muttered _sotto voce_ comment was inaudible and not really intentionally spoken aloud anyway, but Sam realised that Dean had certainly inherited the feline ability to hear well as Dean peremptorily butted his head against Sam's arm in a 'talk, now' gesture.

"Hey, knock it off," Sam snapped irritably. "I just don't feel like eating right now. My brother got turned into a _friggin'_ panther, so I have other priorities."

Dean gave a warning 'watch-your-mouth' growl.

"Oh yeah," challenged Sam with a snort, shoving the cat away, "What are you going to do, Dean, lick me to death? _YEE-ouch!_" He yelped as claws penetrated the denim of his left pants' leg with the ease of a hot knife through butter and pricked tender pink flesh as Sam jerked away. "Ouch! Dean! That was _not_ cool!"

Dean sat on his haunches, looking smugly pleased that he had made his point as Sam rubbed his leg and glared at him. With his paw, Dean swatted both small bottles of OJ over to Sam firmly before polishing off the cooling fries.

"Fine!" Sam's snarl was not unlike Dean's feline version as he obediently drank them, knowing they would provide some little nourishment. "But I am not going out again to get you something to drink!"

The panther's smug look remained as it got down from the bed, padded into the bathroom, and jumped up onto the still-down toilet seat. Stretching out a paw to the small wash basin, the big cat pushed the cold water faucet on then simply leaned his head forward and jammed it under the water flow, glugging water easily.

"Hah, hah," Sam retorted sarcastically, "Aren't you a clever kitty."

Dean's left front leg was braced on the toilet seat but without pausing in his drinking, he extended his right foreleg straight out and twisted it so the underside pads of his paw was face-up, then he extended one single claw in Sam's direction in an unmistakeable gesture.

_Continued in Chapter 10…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	10. Chapter 10

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 10**

Sam turned on his back, opening his eyes as Dean moved from where he'd been laying on top of the other bed onto the floor and padded to the bathroom door, using a big paw to pull down the handle.

It was not yet one o'clock in the morning but Sam felt as if the night had dragged on forever; he'd known he would not sleep but it was best to get what rest he was able to. Sam chuckled under his breath as he heard the big cat manage to flirt up the toilet lid and faint scrabbling sounds; oh, big bro' must be fuming - Dean hadn't had to squat to use the toilet since he was about three.

Women didn't get it. To a girl, urinating was an unpleasant biological necessity, a downright distasteful physiological imperative that, if it ever became possible to 'tinker' about with the design of the human female with impunity, would be done away with, along with menstruation, something else that women deeply resented…though Sam acknowledged if he had to experience that kind of pain every 28 days, he'd probably have good reason for resentment.

But to a guy, taking a leak was another legitimate excuse to diddle with and double-check the most essential and psychologically speaking, quintessential part of the male anatomy. There were entire fields of psychosexual research on the instinctive – and in some cases _not_ subconscious – love affair between a man and his dick. Sam winced as he remembered attempting to explain this psychological imperative to Jessica – admittedly after, perhaps, consuming an _imprudent_ amount of tequila, but she'd closed her eyes, swallowed and held up a hand to stop the earnest and slightly 'urnusht' explanation before walking away muttering, "'men are _gross_'".

Sam was glad he'd not eaten anything as the orange juice still seemed to slosh around in his stomach, but despite his not entirely settled digestion, Sam grinned as he heard the faucet again. Dean was even washing his paws like a good little kitten. Hundred-sixty pounds of pure muscle with fangs and claws or not, there was no way the opportunity to tease could be passed up on. He yawned, plotting his intended torment…

Sam's eyes opened again. A tiny frown dinted his forehead as he replayed the last few minutes: Dean, opening the bathroom door; the sound of Dean using the toilet; the faucet on and now off. He skipped back to earlier this evening, Dean pushing the fries over to him, Dean drinking from the wash basin and giving Sam 'the finger' via claw. Dean, so certain this had not been an unintended fluke side-effect of the Ghoul'; Dean, so confident this was a freak 'blip' that would wear off any minute now…

The lights were switched on by a fist-thump just as Dean came back out of the bathroom. "_YOU LIAR!_"

The cat flinched and flattened its ears as Sam stood a yard away one finger pointed straight at Dean.

He leaned forward, hissing in fury, "You've been a cat for what? One day, a day-and-a-half, tops? Where's your fear, Dean? Where's your uncertainty? Why are you so _confident_ this has _nothing_ to do with the Ghoul? Why are you so blasé that this will just disappear like morning mist any time soon? I don't care how good your reflexes are, or how experienced a Hunter you are, there is _no way_ that 36 hours is enough for you to master control of a quadruped body with a tail after 27 years of bipedal motion, never mind get four paws moving right enough to pull cutesy parlour tricks like _flipping me the BIRD_!"

Sam's voice rose as his tirade went on and the cat cringed lower, making a soft rumbling sound in his throat, but that only stoked Sam's ire.

"_You damned, stinkin' LIAR!_" Sam was enraged. "_I ASKED you, I looked at you and asked you if you had ever heard of anything like this and you shook your head NO! NO! When this has happened to you before!_"

"SHADDAP!"

Accompanied by a deep thud-thud of something heavy against the other side of the dividing wall from the next motel room, the bellow sounded as if it came from the chest of a very large male individual. It was followed by an irate tirade of expletives interjected with vivid, vernacular instructions for Sam to keep his 'argument with his boyfriend' quiet else the gentleman in the adjoining room would regrettably be forced to insert something large and unpleasant up both their 'pansy asses'.

Swallowing back the epithets he wanted to scream, Sam settled for hissing viciously as he yanked on his jeans, T-shirt and boots, "You have _never_ lied to me, Dean; I asked you, point blank and straight out and you _lied_ to me regardless of not uttering a word." He grabbed his jacket, "The sight of you makes me sick!"

Sam turned on his heel but a flowing black shape was in front of the door, glowing hazel eyes fixed on him unwaveringly.

Sam held the stare down. "These boots will break your ribs, Dean. I am not joking. Get out of my way."

The cat's belly was practically kissing carpet but it didn't move. The muscles in Sam's thighs tightened spasmodically and his legs shook. He had never deliberately, of his own free will and volition, physically hurt Dean, and despite his rage he could not bring himself to kick out at the panther.

Again, it was Dean who broke the stare down; he slunk forward slowly to the cramped table and two-chair set in the corner of the room next to the TV stand and got up on one chair, pushing at the laptop with a paw, looking intently at Sam.

Pride was yelling to walk out right now, with anger a supporting chorus, but the residual relief that Dean wasn't drowned at the bottom of a pool or eaten by a cougar was urging calm and reason. But still, _Dean had lied_.

He was unaware of mumbling the words to himself aloud until the cat shook his head and again pawed at the laptop. Lips compressed tight, Sam stalked over to the desk and turned the computer on as Dean hutched over to the chair next to this one. Reaching up a paw, Dean dabbed at the inbuilt 'mouse' pad until he managed to bring up the Microsoft Word® word-processing function blank document page.

"You didn't lie?" Sam challenged sarcastically.

Head-shake, then the cat extended its claws and laboriously tapped keys:

_Nvr hv hd ths hpn ni1 lse._

_Never have heard of this happening to anyone else…_ "Sophistry," condemned Sam, and the panther lowered its head in confession. Refusing to acknowledge any slightly feeling of being mollified, Sam instead stated grimly, "This has happened to you before. I want to know when and how."

The cat's claws made faint tack-tack sounds against the keys:

_U Sfd Norl_

"When I was at Stanford…that voodoo gig of your own in New Orleans you mentioned?" Sam deciphered.

Head nod.

"And you didn't think this _worthy of mention_?" It took major effort for Sam to keep his decibel level below a banshee-shriek, mindful of the unhappy occupant of next door's room.

More typing: _i tht cur mzt, kld vudu._

_I thought the curse 'm' 'z' 't'? Mizzt, missed! Killed voodoo_, "You killed the witch doctor who was trying to curse you?"

Head nod and more tack-tack of keys: _Vudu bd, I kld. Ee no tm fnsh wami, cur nt cmplt, tht I duct. I kld vudu, nthn hpn 2 me 4 dys wk b4 rlyz dd mzg I chng ct, frkd _the cat paused and then typed again, _hid n cty, bt bk 2 mn 2 dys jst on own _

Sam read the words a couple of times. Dean had killed an evil witch doctor who had been trying to put a curse on the Hunter and get him before Dean got him – understandable, since as Dean had rightly pointed out at Oasis Plains, 99 times out of a 100, the only thing to do with a curse was get clear. A hex, or the evil eye was a sort of curse-lite, nasty but not hopeless and could usually be gotten around or destroyed. But a full-on, real-deal Curse with a capital 'C' as in the mummy's tomb was an immensely powerful supernatural threat precisely because a true curse was almost indestructible and breaking it in the rare event it was possible often involved extreme grossness or unthinkable actions or both. If the voodoo priest had the ability to lay a full-on curse on Dean, he must have been a powerful and monstrous evil.

But Dean had arrived before the evil man had had time to complete the curse, and killed him, and nothing untoward had apparently occurred to Dean for days after disposing of the witch doctor. According to what Dean had typed, a week before Dean had realised John Winchester was missing, precipitating Dean's trip to Stanford, he had changed into a panther without warning but changed back again 'on his own' two days later.

Sam pursed his lips, aware of Dean's anxious scrutiny but not entirely averse to making Dean sweat for a few moments. It was more than possible. Curses were the nukes of supernatural weaponry, but the reason no country in the world was ass deep in cursed individuals was because curses had all the stability of Jello in a 9.9 earthquake. One of Dad's truisms was that 'magic will always work against you if can', another reason why the world wasn't standing-room only on account of would-be Harry Potters.

A true curse was incredibly complicated, heart-stopping in its delicacy and always just a whisker away from disaster, sort of the Quantum Physics of the paranormal. Every ingredient had to be measured to the micro-ounce of quantity and state of quality; wording had to be precise else all sorts of confusion could abound, leading to a greater chance of the victim finding a loophole or breaking the curse. Ironically, curses cast by evil for evil reasons had a greater chance of going horrendously awry than curses cast by someone provoked to righteous fury and justified vengeance – hence the fact that a weak, dying condemnation uttered by the Oasis Plains Indian Chief after the massacre had proven to be all-powerful and unbreakable, despite the extremely unfavourable circumstances of its casting.

There were all sorts of fluffed-curse urban legends including the perennial tale of the man who cursed a family only for his victims to suddenly win the lottery, find true love and have perfect, genius-IQ kids and so forth. More pertinently, the world was full of sorcerers now spending their lives going 'ribbet' or screaming themselves to death in a padded cell because they were distracted at a critical juncture or overconfident in their abilities; more often than not insufficient was left of the failure to scoop into a teaspoon.

"Was the curse designed to turn you into…a leopard?"

Head nod and typing: _Curperm, trn me ntu lpd bt lz me cpz shut I dy nbdy no wn I ct me me so nu crs nt tk jst hpd rst fyl n it dd _

Sam looked at this for a minute. A cursed perm? No, the curse was intended to be permanent, to turn Dean into a leopard but also…lose Dean? Of course, destroy Dean the person; make him just a wild, unreasoning beast that the NOPD would shoot dead. Many people in the United States had exotic animals such as tigers and leopards as pets and the NOPD would simply assume the 'black panther' they killed had been illegally dumped in the bayous by an owner unable to cope.

Nobody would have known, and there would have been no reason for Dad, or for Sam, to ever connect the not-even-a-local-newsworthy-item incident of an escaped panther being shot in New Orleans to Dean Winchester, an MIA demon Hunter. Sam remembered the desolation he'd seen in the eyes of that deputy sheriff, Kathleen Haduk, back in Hibbing, Minnesota as she understood fully what had happened to her brother; he'd known she was going to kill the injured Pa Bender and his doing nothing but turn away and go to the house to find Dean had been a tacit go-ahead.

Later, Dean had told him that the desolation had always been present in her gaze, only after it was there because she _knew_ what had happened, whereas before it had been there because she _didn't know_ what had happened. Now he had an inkling of what it was like for the families behind the faces on milk cartons. To go days, months, years…the rest of their lives without John or Sam ever knowing or finding out what had happened to Dean after his 'disappearance' in New Orleans would have been insufferable torment.

His eyes were suspiciously moist so Sam focussed on the rest of the words…'_me me_'… "You changed into the cat, but you retained your sense of self, you were still _Dean_."

Head nod.

Sam also nodded, "So you figured that if _that_ part of the curse had gone kablooey then maybe the rest had, and it was just a freak thing that wouldn't last…two days later you changed back?"

Head nod.

"And it's never happened since?"

Head shake.

"So this is probably just a fluke, because the Ghoul's M.O. involved trying to control animals." Sam mused half to himself, though he recalled how Dean had been 'off his game' before their encounter with the Ghoul – but that wasn't surprising, given that in the aftermath Dean was smart enough to have figured out that John had used Sam as Shtriga bait and manipulated Dean himself into a guilt trip for something he had been blameless for. That on top of recovering from the physical injuries caused by the blasted thing hurling Dean into a bookcase like a rag doll had surely taken a toll on Sam's big brother – they'd certainly bothered _him_.

Head nod of agreement.

"So why the hell did you take off like I was Elmer Fudd!" Sam rapped out.

Dean typed: _Tht lst 2 dys ok in wd no uthr nmls nu u tk cr gul cm bk ok no nd 2 wurri u._

"Not worry me?" Sam retorted. "Dean, I found where you fell into the stream, I found where you got out, I saw blood and claw marks and paw prints. I spent most of the last 36 hours thinking you _had been eaten_." He glared at the clearly abashed panther. "Sylvester on steroids I can deal with; Technicolor nightmares of your mangled body disappearing down a mountain lion's gullet, not so much."

The panther head butted his arm gently and automatically, Sam raised a hand and laid it on the thick ruff of the panther's neck, "Sorry I yelled, man. But like you said to me in Hibbing, _don't _ever scare me like this again. Whatever happens, we deal with it together. Now let's get some real sleep."

_Continued in Chapter 11…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	11. Chapter 11

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 11**

By Friday night, there was no room for anything other than fear in Sam.

The last day of Dean's previous '48-hour' window had been spent lounging on Sam's bed in the motel room watching a _The Three Stooges _marathon with hearty supplies of cola, 7Up, peanut M&Ms (Dean) and lavishly salted popcorn (Sam), with Dean sprawled out beside him impartially sticking his great furry head into both the goodies bowls. (Sam had given up on the popcorn when he scooped a handful and found black hairs stuck on several kernels).

Even when the previous 'point of reversal' had passed without notice, neither had been bothered. A fractured curse could hardly be expected to be punctual to the second, and leeway was to be expected.

When Day Three had gone to Day Four at midnight, Sam had seen his own growing concern – not yet worry – reflected in Dean's eyes, but again, they might just have needed patience; just like it would take some days for the local wildlife to return and the Ghoul's contamination to fade, maybe Dean was the same.

Right now, they had been cooped up in the motel room for five days _after_ the expiration of the 48 hours, with the exception of Sam's brief forays out to buy food for them. Dean retained his sense of self with no lessening, but no matter how often he would stop still and close his eyes, clearly reciting some internal mantra, he remained stubbornly a leopard.

Right now their funds were reasonably healthy, courtesy of Dean's last two poker games, but they couldn't just keep extending their stay at the motel indefinitely and hole up there in the 'hope' that Dean's condition would simply to correct itself. Besides, what if Dad called or sent them co-ordinates to a job? Sam needed Dean to be his wise-ass, evil-butt-kicker self, i.e., human. However, Dean's reaction to Sam deciding to call Dad yesterday had been to swat the cell phone from Sam's hand and stand over it snarling. An hour of one-sided debate had been insufficient to induce Dean to change his mind and the panther had guarded the phone like it had been dipped in catnip ever since.

It was time to take back control; once more the one with opposable thumbs must rule. Standing up, he turned to Dean. "I'm going to see the desk clerk, I won't be long."

The cat watched him go sombrely and Sam drew in a sharp breath as he walked along the row of ground floor rooms to the lobby cabin. Dean was assuming he was getting an extra night or two, and so Sam hadn't had to lie. From the battered lobby payphone, Sam placed a call to the one other friend of Dad's whose phone number he now knew off-by-heart: Missouri Moseley.

"Hi, Sam."

He closed his eyes as she answered the phone promptly. Thank you, Lord, for Missouri. "Hi, I need your help."

"You need to go to see Sullivan. His address is –"

"Whoa, wait –"

"Sam, I know, honey: Dean's a panther an' he ain't changin' back as he should."

"You knew?" Sam blurted. "Why didn't you call and –"

"Sam, I'm barely a quarter as powerful a psychic as you are!"

Sam clamped his lips shut at the gentle rebuke; other than Missouri, nobody, including himself, spoke of his psychic and gradually increasing telekinetic abilities with equanimity or casualness.

"I knew sum'him' was strange but it was only when yawl called that your thoughts were strong enough for me to pick it all up," Missouri explained softly. "That brother o' yours gets hisself into some stray-ange stuff. This is beyond me, but Sullivan should be able to help."

"Thanks," Sam memorised the address. "Bye, Missouri."

He went back to the room and briskly began packing up his bags, telling Dean, "We're going to Missouri, the State not the woman."

Dean tilted his head on one side.

"I called her from the lobby; she told me a guy named Sullivan can reverse this."

Dean's eyes narrowed and he growled.

"Stow it, Dean," Sam shot back. "You pulled a Cujo, what did you expect me to do? Cliff Notes: me human, me in charge. So get your butt in gear. And, if you let me have the cell phone back _right now_, I may be merciful enough _not_ to swap your Metallica tape for Reggie Hammond's _Classic Hammond Organ Greats_."

Sullenly the cat moved back away from the cell phone.

"_Thank you_."

Packing Dean's stuff as well, Sam placed all their gear in the trunk bar their usual holdall with the EMF and Infra-Red Thermal Scanner, which he placed on the back seat, and double-checked they'd left nothing behind.

"Right, when I open the passenger door, try and become one with the foot well and for pity's sake keep your _head down._" He ordered glancing around to make sure the coast was clear.

Dean bared his teeth at him, but did as ordered. Keeping his eyes glued to the rear view mirror all the way to the County line for any hint of a sheriff's vehicle or state trooper, Sam left behind the oblivious little town, Westlake being unaware it was saved.

According to Missouri the woman, 'Sullivan' lived in the highlands sandwiched between the Ozark Plateau to the north and the Boston Mountains to the South, just past Bull Shoals Lake; he had a ranch in the mountains between some place called Harrison and a town called Branson. Even with Dean driving and eating up Interstate, it would have been a ten-hour non-stop drive; Sam knew he would have taken twelve hours, but beyond that he dare not get caught with a 160lb panther in his car and no animal licence, so it was back-roads all the way; what fun, especially as half the 'minor' roads on continental American maps weren't shown and most didn't believe in signage, apparently under the impression that the non-local traveller wanted to be surprised by their destination rather than be aware of it in advance.

As soon as they crossed the State line, Dean scrambled up onto the other half of the front seat beside him. Sam didn't waste his breath ordering the cat back down. 'Me man, you kitty, I rule' had only worked due to a mixture of anger and surprise on his part. No way was Dean going to cower like a…fraidy-cat…in his own beloved Impala.

Dean growled and gave him a significant look as he slowed and indicated to turn off.

"Yeah, I know it's a bad idea," Sam replied, "but I can't risk taking main routes. We don't have any dangerous pet licences to hand, and I don't think anyone's going to buy a story about me being with the Parks Service and transporting an uncaged, non-sedated, non-indigenous carnivore." He pointed out, sighing as Dean's tail twitched in telltale agitation. "You know how much red tape there is these days…We get pulled over and the trooper out to make his speeding ticket quota will freak out. Even assuming I talk him out of shooting you on the spot, I'll get hauled to the slammer and you'll get shoved in a cramped cage at animal control. It could take weeks to get you released assuming they don't try and just put you down straight away."

Dean made no more noises of objection. Sam carried on driving, anxiety eating away at him at the time it was taking to determine the difference between anonymous back road and anonymous back road. He paused only once to fill up at a one-pump gas station and take a leak, with Dean sliding back into the foot well as a precaution despite the fact that the old timer was about a hundred-oh-two and possessed roughly the same keen eyesight as a mole. How had Dean managed it when he was driving alone during Sam's time at Stanford? Even with two of them sharing the driving now it had been a long time to spend behind the wheel.

Sam's brain re-engaged as Dean growled. It was practically sunset; his eyelids felt they were scraping over boulders and the sight of pine trees made him sick right now.

"What is it?"

Insistent growl.

Puzzled, Sam pulled over to the verge of the road and turned off the engine, whereupon Dean sort of oozed himself up and over into the backseat and began to paw at the holdall Sam had placed there containing their 'essentials' that they might need rapid access to. Getting out, Sam opened the rear driver's side door and stepped back smartly as Dean pushed out the holdall practically onto his foot.

"Dean?"

The cat jumped out after the holdall and then, dropping its shoulder, shoved Sam in the calves, making him stumble forward.

"What? You want me to get in the back?"

_Yeah, genius_, the cat's look said it all.

"Why?"

Another 'duh' look.

Then Sam got it. "You want me to sleep in the back?" he demanded incredulously. "Damn it, Dean, we don't have time to mess around!"

Snarl.

"No!"

Again Sam was unprepared for a large, solid body to bound up into his face and knock him flat onto the back seat. If he'd been seventeen and on a hot date, yes, but his mystically furry elder brother did not come close!

"Dean, Missouri said this guy can change you back. The sooner we get there, the sooner you get to be your pouty, sarky self. Don't you get that?" He managed to get out despite the weight on his chest.

The cat brought its face so close to his own that Sam's eyes almost crossed; he needed no special abilities to read the _frankly my dear…_attitude. He sighed. Sure, he was tired – beyond tired, everything ached from sitting in one position for countless hours - but this was for Dean…who was still pulling the protective big brother riff even as a giant fur ball.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

A large, rough pink thing rasped up his face in a slurp.

"Aaah!" Sam bucked and twisted his head. "Ah! Gross! Ah! Dean! Don't you ever do that again!"

The cat slid off, its eyes glowing, and Sam sat up, frantically wiping saliva from his face.

Sam placed the holdall in the front, and locked the doors from the inside, curling up as best he could on the back seat. Being 6' 4" was no joke when it came to sleeping in the car, but he could do it if necessary. Dean also got back in the front seat, watching Sam with his head resting on the backrest.

To his own surprise, Sam was caught by a massive yawn and a wave of tiredness.

Maybe just a nap…

_Continued in Chapter 12…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	12. Chapter 12

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 12**

Sam brought the Impala to a halt at the top of the drive as it opened out in front of Sullivan's ranch house. "At least it doesn't look like the Benders' place," he quipped feebly.

Sam got out of the driver's side and held open the door as Dean padded across the front seat after him and out, making sure he didn't catch the panther's tail as he closed the door. The ranch house and the nearby barn/out buildings were large, stone-built and well kept with an air of prosperity that Sam tried to take heart from. In nearby paddocks there were glossy-coated, healthy looking quarter-horses and Hereford-breed cattle that indicated against evil in the area.

Psychotic animals, sickly animals, or no animals period, across more than one species that should have been common to a locality or otherwise 'thriving', were an early indication of paranormal badness. Nature recoiled from evil and would not continue to exert itself in a place where evil was; it was why Hunters kept their eyes open for bare areas of ground surrounded by healthy greenery, places where crops failed inexplicably, and so forth. The presence of the Ghoul at Westlake had been, in demon hunter terms, a 'no brainer' – all wildlife that could down to insects and even micro-organisms had fled and foliage that should have been healthy had begun to inexplicably wither, with flowers not seeding and trees not producing fruits.

Another classic example had been the evil of the Burkitsville townsfolk, whose murders had been why their apple orchards immediately began to wither away as soon as the sustaining 'magic' dwindled. Partially it was also the reason why nobody had been clued in that Oasis Plains was under a curse – the Indian Chief's curse had been uttered as a deserved punishment to deliver true justice to the white men who had murdered his people for the land they would not live to enjoy, and as such had not been evil. Nature had therefore had no problem with that and the land continued to lushly produce.

To Sam's relief, the horses and cattle ignored the apparent predator nearby. However, the 2004 Asian Tsunami and the 2005 Hurricane Katrina had been only the latest in a long line of disasters where the animal death toll was a fraction of the human one because their instincts and perceptions were more acute. Similarly to the friendly dog that had gone 'Cujo' when the shape shifter arrived on the scene, this was the opposite effect, these animals seemed to realise that while the black cat _looked_ like a leopard it wasn't in fact any threat to them.

With Dean pressing against his right calf, Sam walked slowly towards the ranch house, feeling as if he'd eaten a hundredweight of butterflies. He had woken in the back seat of the Impala stiff and sore – and secretly hoping that overnight Dean would have become Dean again. The despondent droop to the panther's head had indicated an identical wish.

The door of the ranch house opened and a tall man – he had at least two inches on Sam's 6' 4" – stepped out onto the wraparound porch, dressed in denim jeans and a button-down shirt. He had bright blue eyes but jet-black hair, a stocky roundness to his build that indicated Amerindian but the height was Caucasian.

"Sam and Dean Winchester," he stated evenly, not batting an eyelid at the large panther. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Padraig White Eagle Sullivan –" he grinned showing large, slightly crooked white teeth, "Cherokee-Irish."

Sam shook his hand, relaxing slightly as Sullivan had a firm, dry grip and did not attempt to crush his fingers to pulp in the pissing-contest way some guys did when they took in Sam's height and lithe musculature. "Thank you for seeing us, Mr Sullivan." he said sincerely.

"Happy to help Johnny's boys anyway I can, and it's just plain Sullivan."

"Yes Sir."

"Come on in," Sullivan invited, "I expect you'd kill for a comfy chair right now."

"Just a little," Sam admitted self-depreciatingly.

Inside the ranch house was clean but not anally-retentive spotless and sported well-crafted but comfortable furniture. It wasn't the sort of place where you perched on the edge of the couch terrified of breathing and disturbing something but nor was it some slob's pig-sty. Most reassuring were the number of obviously 'family knick-knacks' and photographs ranging from old Daguerreotypes to large modern-day ones; a pretty, greying middle-aged woman featured prominently as did two young men and two young women, all of whom had sufficient resemblance to Sullivan to assume his paternity.

This was a place of _family_, and Sam felt a sharp pang of loss – not for himself, having never known and thus never missed this – but for Dean and for Dad, who had once enjoyed this with Mary Winchester. Briefly looking down Sam saw Dean surreptitiously glancing around him, an unmistakable air of nostalgic sadness seeming to emanate from the leopard.

Indicating a chair, Sullivan took the other armchair, "Missouri called and filled me in as best she could, but I'd like to hear it from you?"

Deleting trivial minutiae but trying to be as comprehensive as possible, Sam related what had happened in Westlake, and then the origin of the situation, back when Dean had killed the witch doctor and stymied the curse.

"…the best illustration I can think of is that the curse was like someone hurling a flour bomb at you at a frat party," Sam finished. "You duck and it misses and hits the wall behind you, but when you get back to your place you still find a few smears of flour on the back of your new shirt from the impact-spray."

"Good analogy," Sullivan praised. "Dean, is that a full picture of what happened would you say?"

The panther, sat on his haunches next to Sam's chair, nodded gravely.

"Now we'd got what's what sorted out, the most important question right now is, 'Are you in any pain?'"

_Continued in Chapter 13…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

**Author's Note:**_Dear Readers, I hope you will please be patient if I am a little slow in updating. I am afraid that I am not well. Unfortunately I have a muscular disease which can be very wearisome at times. It is in no way fatal, but it is chronic and very painful. I am currently saving for surgery which will help alleviate much of my pain and restore the old Cat pep, but it is expensive - £5,000 – and will take at least two years before I can afford it, so until that day is reached, I must ask for your indulgence. I have not and will not stop writing in any of my fandoms, but my posting speed is not what it was. _

_However, anyone reading my stories who is American at least has the consolation of being able to watch Season 2 from 28th September. Here in the UK we do not even have a firm commitment to show Season 2 at all from the station in question (ITV) though I did hear it would be sometime "after Christmas". Pah! My one bit of light is that I can play Region 1 NTSC videos and DVDs, so have been able to bypass the poor Region 2 effort and get the Season 1 boxset from the USA, which has goodies on it like the Gag Reel, etc. Someone told me it also has the cast/crew interview from something called the Paley Festival (I don't know what that is, sorry) but someone else told me no, it didn't. I shall have to check when it arrives – apparently that interview is on DVD somewhere so I may have to order it. Anyway, to get back on track – please be patient with me if I cannot manage to update as rapidly as I would like. _


	13. Chapter 13

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**(Please see Author's Note bottom of page)**

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 13**

Sam was instantly stricken with guilt; the idea that Dean might be suffering physically had never even crossed his mind!

The panther firmly shook its head.

Sullivan rubbed his chin, "I'm going to need to hit the books for this one. Please, stay over for the night?"

"Thank you," Sam could have hugged him at the offer of a real bed, "as long as we're not intruding on your family…?"

Sullivan smiled, "Nope, my four's r'all flown 'n' grown, so they reckon, though my youngest Lucy'll probably swing by for dinner…gal's practically allergic to cookin'. Not that I mind, I'm on my own now."

"I'm sorry," Sam inwardly winced as he uttered the trite phrase. "Er…how should I play it if your children do come by?"

"Straight," Sullivan replied, "all four of them are Hunters."

Sam couldn't prevent himself making a surprised noise. "A family business…like us and Dad…must have been…" he searched for a word that wouldn't sound patronising or insulting.

"It had its moments," Sullivan chuckled, clearly not offended by Sam's hesitancy. "Especially as Lily didn't know at first."

"Your…wife…wasn't a Hunter?" Sam asked, intensely curious about the internal dynamic of the first other 'Hunter family' he'd met – most of Dad's friends and/or co-hunters had definitely been lone wolf types. Even Missouri, the most 'normal' of them, had lived alone.

"Lily…absolutely not." Sullivan leaned back in his armchair, an affectionately nostalgic smile on his face.

Sam and Dean both remained perfectly still, waiting, as they recognised that expression; rarely could they get their father to talk about 'Before', and more rarely still had they been treated to whimsical reminiscences about John's life with Mary, so had quickly learned to treasure every syllable John Winchester sounded, as the 'Did-I-ever-tell-you-about…' never lasted more than an hour before the sadness would creep back into his eyes and smother the bittersweet recollections.

"I'm from a Hunter family," Sullivan admitted, "back to my great-great-great-grandmother. She ended up out West with three kids under five and a widow within her first year there." He pointed to a heavy-framed, very old, portrait-style group shot of a man and woman with three very young boys, all wearing extremely uncomfortable clothes and decidedly grim expressions. The woman was severe-looking but not ugly – handsome, rather than pretty - with a determined line to her jaw, but the man had a suspicious skinniness to his frame for a supposedly young twenty-something; even in such an aged, old image, he possessed deep-sunk, dark-circled eyes and a discernible hollowness to his cheeks that hinted at someone not in the most robust health. "That's her, Zillah Postlethwaite Dyson, taken a month before they headed West, with her then husband Jamison Dyson and their sons Jamison Junior, Eldon and Tristan."

"She must have been incredibly brave." Sam commented obligingly.

Sullivan nodded. "Round these parts there's an old saying, 'If yah can't fix it, yah gotta stand it'; folks reckon that came from her. She'd lost her entire family in Yorkshire, England at 16 in a combined cholera and typhoid outbreak, so there was nothing to go back for except penury and the workhouse. A few months after her husband died, she was with some homesteaders fighting off an Indian raid. Some Union Army glory hound trying to ape that idiot General Custer had deliberately provoked the local tribe by allocating to settlers land for homesteads on religiously sacrosanct Indian land. The local Mayor and the Colonel in charge of Fort Ozark at the time actually had some common sense and even a sense of guilt over the wholesale theft of Native American land and murder of Indian populations, so the idiot made sure nobody knew what he was doing…"

"Least of all the homesteaders?" Sam winced in recollection of the bug attack they'd endured at Oasis Plains in the Pike house, caused by the massacre of a local tribe a century before…he and Dean had been stung dozens of times, including one right on Sam's left butt cheek that had made sitting down murder for a week – and he daren't let slip any hint else Dean would have teased him mercilessly.

Not that he couldn't _understand_ such curses even as he and Dean fought to destroy them – when whites first arrived in America in the 1500s, the Indian population had been well over 2 million. After three centuries of _de facto _genocide born from the blatantly racist ethos that was 'Manifest Destiny', by 1900 the Native American population of the continental United States had been less than 90,000. Disgustingly, by far the majority of the 1,910,000 dead Indians had been outright murdered by gun or blade or noose or massacre, or cold-bloodedly exterminated by entire villages being provided with poisoned food or clothing/bedding deliberately infected with smallpox, cholera, scarlet fever, and other diseases for which Amerindians had had no natural immunity at that time; and all that had been before the shameful 1920s, when the Government had forcibly removed Indian children from their parents to live in State care in a calculated attempt to destroy Amerindian culture.

"Smart boy," Sullivan nodded grimly. "The fool got food poisoning but thought he was heading for the Fires Below so made what he thought was a death-bed confession to the Mayor and his CO. Unfortunately by that time it was too late for about fifty homesteaders and nearly as many Indians who'd had pitched battles."

"But your ancestress survived." Sam pointed out.

"Yup, that's how she came to be our founding Hunter." Sullivan grinned. "The homesteaders were losing when she saw these 'monsters' sneaking out of the woods and attacking the wounded Indian braves…eating them alive."

"Ghouls?"

"Somethin' like," Sullivan agreed. "It was dusk and everybody was focussing on other things and they are opportunistic…anyway then whatever they were grabbed a coupla o' the homesteader men. She saw one of the braves trying to crawl away but he'd been shot bad a coupla times, and he warn't n'more than a kid…if he was pushing fourteen he'd have been goin' well. In her diary she wrote that she didn't even think about what she was doin', just reacted. She burst out of the cabin the homesteaders were holed up in and blasted the 'abominations' at close range."

"With a rifle?" Sam blurted as next to him Dean growled in derision – Ghouls were hard to kill at the best of times, and required repeated and heavy firepower to put one down hard, which was why he and Dean had hired the Glock18Cs. One unprepared woman with an old single-shot hunting rifle shouldn't have stood a chance.

"Yup. She woulda been dinner too, but everyone was startled enough to stop tryin' ta slaughter _each_ _other _and see what was goin' on. Most of the homesteaders freaked and fled but the other braves knew what they were dealin' with and they and the few whites that didn't run ganged up with her against the Ghouls. Once the braves were able to convey that fire was the thing, Zillah did no more than run back to the house and come back out with a burning log from the stove and a bucket of kerosene. That was that."

"She sounds like a great woman." Sam admired.

"Anyway she was able to be the bridge between the Indians and the whites. The last few homesteaders willingly left once they were told what was going on – Zillah called a big meeting and asked how they'd feel if she went back to their homes in England and dug up their parents' graves to build herself a fine mansion and they got the point. Zillah and her boys stayed here and a coupla years later she had my great-great-grandpappy and three more children with one of the braves. The tribe accepted them and trained them as Hunters. His granddaughter, my grandma, married my grandpa Sean Sullivan and brought him into the business."

"But Lily wasn't from a Hunter family." Sam pressed.

"No…" Sullivan smiled at the memories. "They do say there's no fool like a fool in love. I kept telling myself I wasn't in love and it was just a fling and that I'd end it before either of us got too emotionally invested…"

Against his leg Sam felt Dean move restlessly and realised that Sullivan's words were very likely a near identical repetition of how Dean must have desperately rationalised during his relationship with Cassie Robinson.

"Of course I ended up in a church saying 'I do'. It was the best and worst day of my life. I loved that woman more than life itself –"

"And spent every day lying through your teeth to her," Sam couldn't help the embittered confession

Sullivan regarded him sombrely, not pushing, and Dean pressed against his calf agitatedly.

Unaware of how he'd dropped his hand to stroke the panther's ruff for reassurance, Sam explained quietly how his partner, Jessica Lee Moore, had been murdered months before by the same demon that had killed Mary Winchester. "I met Jess during my Sophomore year at Stanford and we moved into an apartment together near the end of my junior year, eighteen months before she…" Sam swallowed. "It was serious, y'know. The Real Thing. I'd put a deposit on an engagement ring…amethyst and opal…and booked MemChu – Stanford Memorial Church – for the week after graduation. But…I lied like a rug about my family, my past…"

"But sometimes things would just slip out and you could feel her giving you that quizzical/curious look and all you could do was pray she would forget about it," Sullivan whispered softly, clearly familiar with the strategy.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, his fingers unconsciously massaging the fur of Dean's neck. "Once this guy tried to mug us – a man mountain hopped up on coke or something – and I took him down without breaking a sweat. I didn't even think, my brain just switched to autopilot and I didn't even understand the fuss – compared to a werewolf or a really badass poltergeist he was about as lethal as a teddy bear, and that toothpick was nothing compared to a Ghoul's talons. But Jess was all 'wow' about it. There was other stuff too…I mean, she wasn't complaining about my buff body…" Sam couldn't help but smile, "…but when we first started dating I didn't realise I still worked out at the gym like my life depended on it instead of a naïve college kid wanting to impress the girls. Jess noticed, and wondered."

"But you loved her too much to be anything other than terrified that the truth of what you were would destroy your relationship." Sullivan's words were a statement not a question.

Sam sighed, "Not the truth of what I was, but the truth, period. That would have been what destroyed our relationship. Finding out about what I was, what I did…that all the supernatural monsters humans kid themselves about actually are real and evil and think of humans as tasty snacks…it would have been a shock, but she would have dealt with it. She would have left me because I'd lied to her. You see she had an uncle, her favourite, close enough in age to be a big brother, who was a government guy…"

"'Then I'd have to kill you' kinda deal?" Sullivan surmised.

"Yes. The family were real shocked when they found out, and a few months later, her aunt left him. She told Jess that it wasn't because of what he was, but because he was so good at it. Jess's aunt had had no suspicion whatsoever that he was anything other than a middle-management banker. Jessica's aunt couldn't tell if he was deceiving her or not and as she pointed out, there was nothing to stop him in future setting up a dozen mistresses in every city because she wouldn't be able to detect his deception. He was too good a liar for her to ever be able to truly trust him, and like she said, he'd spent their entire marriage looking her straight in the eye and lying like a rug."

"And Jessica took her aunt's attitude…" Sullivan commiserated.

Sam couldn't help a bitter chuckle. "The so-tragic-it's-funny part of the story is that I _was_ going to confess all. Two weeks after we'd moved in together I was literally sick with guilt. I've never had hollow legs – unlike certain currently feline formerly hominid people I could name – but I never had problems with my appetite until I had to look at Jessica every morning over the breakfast table and lie to her. I could barely keep anything down from the shame. But then the whole CIA-assassin divorced-uncle story came out just as I'd psyched myself up for the Big Confession and that was it. I'd been deceiving Jessica non-stop for about six months at that point and all she would have seen was us as a replay of her uncle and aunt's situation, only with her being 'lucky enough not have ended up married to the bastard' first."

Sullivan nodded sympathetically. "I'd like to say Lily finding out went differently, but I can't. I inherited some money, enough to cover the Hunting and the occasional big fee I got boosted it. After we married I supposedly 'travelled' a lot for work and I hid it that way. We had Carrie – Caroline, our eldest – and I fondly thought my hidden room with all my weaponry and research materials was childproof."

"Ouch." Sam managed a smile at this hubris.

"You said it. Carrie was a tomboy, never happy unless she was climbing a tree or knee-deep in a stream somewhere." Sullivan's voice was infused with affection and pride. "She found the room and read what she could understand and one night I went out to the neighbouring ranch to see if I could help with a 'rogue bear' problem that I knew was really a werewolf or a Wendigou, unaware that I had a little stalker. The werewolf was big and full of a fresh kill and whomping my ass but good when Carrie had the presence of mind to pull out my Army revolver and blast away. She didn't hit it but it was distracted enough for me to shove my silver dagger into its heart…"

"And it was all over bar the salting and burning and explaining," Sam finished dryly.

"When I think back and realise she was only _six_…anyway that was it…she wanted in. I trained her as my parents had trained me…"

"Martial arts, bow hunting, lock-picking," recited Sam in a sing-song voice, stopping as Dean made a soft growling sound in his throat and realising belatedly that his whimsical tone could be misconstrued as an 'attack' on John Winchester.

Politely choosing to ignore the byplay, Sullivan explained, "Sometimes when women are in the family way they get this cleaning frenzy – a nesting thing. We'd had Kell two years after Carrie and Cassian three years after him. I shoulda realised Lily was expecting Lucy even if she warn't no bigger than a tadpole at the time when Lily started decorating like we was living in a cesspit."

"She found the room," Sam surmised.

"Yeah…the weapons, the books…and our Hunter journals."

"Our Dad has a journal," Sam admitted.

"Nearly all Hunters do. I don't know when the notion became a Hunter tradition – centuries ago I suppose - but it makes sense," pointed out Sullivan. "A Hunter is on the road ninety-percent of the time and has to travel fast and light. In the days before CD-ROMs and iPods you couldn't be hauling around dozens of heavy encyclopaedias with you so your journal was a handy backpack ready-reference, a one-stop-shop combination diary and research database. Thing is, unlike me, most Hunters are sensible enough to disguise their journals as diaries; they write long paragraphs about the weather and going fishing that are really code. My journals were full of detailed anatomical sketches of vampires and detailed instructions of how to kill werewolves and banish poltergeists."

Exchanging a glance with Dean, Sam remembered Blackwater Ridge and how he'd got clear thanks to Dean's warning. From a safe distance he'd secretly watched the sheriff and his deputies clear out their/Dad's motel room with increasingly freaked out expressions and excited animation. By the time they'd finished and come out carrying the last cardboard box with a familiar-looking brown book in it, he'd heard enough, courtesy of a prevailing breeze, to know that the sheriff had Dad and Dean as some sort of Devil-worshipping, father-and-son serial killers responsible for every disappearance on Centennial Highway back to the first man murdered by Constance Welch in 1981.

"Lily thought I was nuts, and she thought I'd brought Carrie into the delusions as well." Sullivan explained. "I got home as she was packing up the kids in the car – Carrie resisting tooth 'n' nail – to go to her parents' place in Green Forest. Yelled at me so loud they probably heard her in Paraguay and nearly ran me down as she drove off."

"What did you do?"

"Followed her," Sullivan shrugged, "I had to; she was driving my usual car 'cause it was bigger – I have a false bottom in the trunk too and all my gear bar what I'd got on me that night when I got back home was in there."

"That night?" Sam picked up on the subtle inflexion Sullivan had given the time.

"I was tailgating 'em and eventually Lily pulled over. We both jumped out the cars together and she lit in to me good. It was a mess with the boys wailing like banshees and Carrie trying to explain, when all of a sudden this huge hunchback thing bursts out of the undergrowth towards us. The size of a grizzly, only it looked like exactly what it was – at least fifty percent pure demon. There were scales and talons and its breath…" even now, Sullivan shuddered. "'Course, the shock of something that only exists in some schlock B-movie comin' right at you normally nicely paralyses the meal with terror until its too late, but Carrie tossed me my rifle and I shot it full of holes. I yelled at Lily to get clear and not look back…"

"Bullets would only have pissed it off," commented Sam, as they all knew.

"They did at that. I'm doing everything I can to slow it down with this horrible feeling I'm going to lose and Carrie's yelling at her mom not to drive off yet because the silver bullets are in the trunk. Carrie popped it and grabbed the rock-salt shotgun and fired off both barrels, which it didn't like, next thing she's right there with me, yelling at her mom to put the pedal to the metal and don't stop until she ran out of gas. Next thing we know, boom, boom, the thing is taking silver bullets to its chest. Lily'd grabbed a gun and just kept firing until it was empty. Carrie and I salted and burned the corpse…"

"And Lily realised you weren't crazy," Sam finished.

"In a nutshell. She turned round and drove home and sat me down and got me to explain it all and then explain it all again, and then she was in."

"She became a Hunter too?"

"Not actively. Some people just aren't cut out for a life constantly on the road, dealing with the horror day in and day out…"

Sam thought of Jessica – and Cassie Robinson – Cassie was one of those very rare people who possessed not just intelligence but _sensibleness_; unlike the common misconception, IQ and common sense were not the same thing at all. He strongly suspected Cassie's rejection of Dean had been because she'd known she wasn't up to spending her life in a _real_ 'road-trip horror movie'.

"…but she was great at the research, figuring out patterns and stuff," Sullivan was saying. "More than that…she shared the love…she only had to meet a couple of other Hunters to realise that most of us, male or female, is usually a Man or Woman Who Walks Alone. She did her best to persuade the others to stop by once in a while, to rest a couple of days here before moving on. She was a soul doctor and she helped more of our kind than I can count…"

"Is that how you met our Dad?"

"You boys were only young back then – same age as Kell and Cassian – John was so burdened, so convinced he was a terrible father…We helped him get things into perspective…When he saw our kids were learning to be Hunters and thriving on it…"

"So you brought all your kids into the family business."

Sullivan chuckled. "I didn't have any choice. The boys were hell on wheels after that night. They didn't care about the monster at all – they were just outraged at being _saved_ by their _big sister_. The humiliation was not to be borne. A girl was better than them with a crossbow, and Carrie wasn't exactly humble about her skills when it came to bossing them about."

Sam laughed at this, "Yeah, I get that. They seem to have this common delusion that being older makes them _in charge_."

The cat growled loudly and Sullivan needed no magic powers to understand it as: _Damn right we are, baby brother, and don't you forget it._

_Continued in Chapter 14…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoy these 2 chapters; I hope to avoid anything that contravenes Season 2 too much, which US viewers are currently enjoying. However, if this is of any use to those of us in the UK, it is possible to watch the Season 2 premiere, **_In My Time of Dying_**, on the 'Net. Some people have uploaded the premiere onto The best upload is by someone called 'Raidean' and is in 5 parts each roughly 9 minutes long. The screen is very small, but the picture and sound quality is very good. In the site's "search" bar, type In My Time of Dying and it will bring up the clips, then just look for Raidean/In My Time of Dying part 1. You don't have be a member of Youtube to watch the episode, though you will have to join if you want to send Raidean fulsome text messages of thanks and grovel to him or her to keep uploading each of the eps as they air g .


	14. Chapter 14

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 14**

Just as Sullivan had got his research papers and books spread around, Dean turned his head as if listening to something only he could hear, and then faintly Sam heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle.

A door slammed and footsteps hurried, a definitely female voice carolling, "Daaaddy! Hi, it's me!"

A young woman of about 5' 10" came barrelling through the front door. She was wearing black pants and a V-neck white blouse that accentuated her Marilyn Monroe curves but her hair was jet-black not blonde, though her eyes were a bright blue. She was not beautiful but 'pretty', since her nose was somewhat pert, her jaw a bit too strong for daintiness and her teeth were slightly crooked. Sam didn't see any of those things, as her eyes were bright not just with effervescence but intelligence and enthusiasm and strength.

Understandably, she stopped dead at the sight of the panther.

"Hi Lucy," Sullivan smiled at his youngest child. "This is Sam –"

"Winchester." She finished for her father. "As in Uncle John's son?"

"Yes," Sam smiled at her.

"And..._Dean_…oh wow…" Lucy gazed at the panther with an expression of enraptured delight…"You are just…I'm sorry, I really am…but you are just _adorable_…" she crouched down so she was eye level with Dean.

And Dean purred at her.

Sam turned to look at Sullivan, who bit his lip at the human Winchester's dual expression of disgust and 'is-she-serious?' disbelief. Sullivan strongly suspected he was going to spend the remainder of the night struggling not to collapse in hysterics.

"Can you help him?" Lucy asked her father as she stood up again, unwittingly giving Dean a good eyeful of her cleavage in the process.

"I'm gonna try, honey." Sullivan assured her. "Was just goin' to make some dinner for me and these boys…you want to stay for dinner too?" he asked dryly.

She beamed as if the question had not been largely rhetorical.

For the first hour, Sam was in love with Lucy Sullivan. Her dad's food wasn't fancy – stew and dumplings and apple pie – but it smelled fabulous, especially after nearly a week and a half of junk 'fast' food and fries that the brothers had eaten straight from the box. Sam had dreamed of Caesar salads, fresh fruit and non-fried fish.

Lucy anxiously found a breakfast bowl and went up to Dean, asking him if he could manage to drink his beer out of the bowl as a cup would be too difficult. Dean nodded vigorously and it was only as Lucy enthusiastically poured a couple of Budweiser bottles into the bowl that Sam realised with relief and gratitude how neatly and kindly she had removed any chance of Dean being embarrassed and humiliated by having to eat his food and 'lap up' drink out of bowls.

When she set the table, she placed herself beside Dean's chair and spent two minutes having the panther jump up and down from the seat to ensure he was the right distance from the table, then used tack to stick Dean's bowl of stew and bowl of beer to the table so they didn't move about all over as he tried to eat out of them, and she did all of it with such guileless enthusiasm and unabashed delight in her 'ingenuity' at solving these practical problems that Dean didn't have chance to feel self-conscious or inadequate. It transpired that Lucy was only 22, like Sam, but he shrewdly revised his opinion of her cheery, sunny nature. That bubbly chatter well-hid a shrewd and steel-trap mind; Sam strongly suspected he was meeting the late Lily Sullivan through her daughter.

However, what Dean was also lapping up was her being entranced with his feline status. What _was_ it about women and cuddlesome, furry animals, Sam wondered sourly? For all her disingenuous mental acuity, she was like a little girl with a kitten and Dean was playing up to her for all he was worth – the saccharine was enough to rot Sam's teeth.

While the pie was digesting, they decided to play some cards and Lucy immediately hugged Dean like a little girl presented with a kitten, 'bagging' him as her partner. Three-way poker was hard enough with a 'poker wolf' like Sullivan when your traitor brother was practically in the girl's lap trying to give her clues as to when Sam was bluffing or holding a 'pat' hand. Dean was _sooo_ going to pay, Sam decided as Lucy again gleefully won the pot.

Eventually Sullivan got them down to the books and the research. The Internet was handy, and these days there were few things you couldn't enter into a search engine on Google®, Yahoo® or Ask or AOL® and not get a hit, able to access widely scattered materials that could be in a country the other side of the world within seconds.

But there were drawbacks also. Principally there was GIGO – Garbage In, Garbage Out; what you got out was only as good as what other people put in. Without the original documents you had to trust that whomever had posted them on the 'Net had got the translation mostly correct or the item in the appropriate context, not according to their own personal bias or uncertainly making an 'educated guess'. The whole Shtriga deal had been a classic example of someone failing to do their homework, or more likely someone lazily quoting a source that had been quoting a source that had merely guessed in the first place.

The first search that Lucy did had her angrily snorting because the third most popular result was none other than the cyber-space buffoon who had done a hatchet-job on John Winchester. Sam had discovered the cyber 'exposé' online during his second year at Stanford and nearly had a heart attack as he read the screen.

A self-styled debunker of the inexplicable and self-proclaimed 'scourge' of paranormal 'charlatans' like psychics and such 'hustlers' as John Winchester, the guy wrote like a National Enquirer hack and was about as accurate and unbiased. Ever since reading what had been written about his Dad, Sam wouldn't have cared if the guy had been eaten by a werewolf or killed by a poltergeist, but over and above that the guy's online ramblings referenced and quoted 'real deal' sources but sloppily and inaccurately – and when you were a Hunter, sloppy and inaccurate very quickly led to gruesome death, if not yourself then an innocent person, or both. How many Shtrigas had escaped retribution because of that myth claiming they were invincible? A myth probably started by a Shtriga in disguise itself! Only God Himself was omnipotent, anything else you could kill, you just had to find out how.

Even with the best of intentions and a genuine work ethic uncontaminated by delusions of self-importance mistakes could be made. Dad's insistence on them learning Latin, a language extinct outside Catholic Liturgy for a thousand years, had paid handsome dividends but was extremely difficult because a language was best learned by immersion in the surrounding culture to absorb the nuances and inflexions and textual richness.

It wasn't that there were no tomes and grimoires and scholarly texts on how to deal with supernatural nastiness, but the vast majority of them were very old – old as in _centuries _and _millennia_ rather than years and decades – and thus written in languages extinct for thousands of years. Cuneiform, Akkadian, Sumerian, Aramaic, Biblical Hebrew and First Century Koine Greek were just a few 'popular' languages for texts written by ancient sorcerers, theologians and yes, Hunters of those times and it was way too easy to mispronounce, mistranslate or transpose a letter, word, or even a grammatical notation, and change the entire meaning.

On top of that, original source materials were often not complete or extraordinarily fragile. The onset of the Dark Ages when science and art had been forced to become a circumspect sub-culture first in Western Europe by Catholic Christianity and later in Eastern Europe by the Islamic Empire of the Ottoman Turks and Caliphate had driven both Hunters and the scholars of their kind underground for centuries. Cultural disasters such as the burning of the Library of Alexandria, the sacking of Baghdad in the 13th Century, the ravages of the Mongols and the Turks and the Crusaders had caused many vital Hunter texts and their scholar-associates to be destroyed.

Finally in the small hours Sullivan laid down some papers and said, "The good news is, I'm sure we can fix this."

Sam straightened in his chair at this positive statement. On the couch, Lucy had fallen asleep and was now half sprawled, wrapped around Dean in a manner that had he been human would have been blatantly obscene and probably had Sullivan reaching for a shotgun with one hand and a preacher with the other. Now, he carefully eased away from the girl and padded over to sit pressing against Sam's lower legs like a giant house cat, gold/green-hazel eyes fixed on Sullivan.

"What's the bad news?" asked Sam for them both.

"Dean broke the curse." Seeing Sam's frown, Sullivan expounded. "The curse was a doozy, but an applied curse is actually more likely to be fixable than a thwarted one. Imagine the curse as like a branch that the beaver – the sorcerer – was going to make part of a dam. Dean kills the beaver and blasts the branch into twigs. Now, if that branch had been part of the dam, it would have been nasty, but it would have had order, coherence, some structure. It would have been possible to deconstruct the dam and end up with a nice pile of firewood, all neat and in place."

"And now?"

Sullivan shrugged. "Now the fractured remnants of the curse are floating around the supernatural ether like bits of twigs from the blasted branch in a river, gradually disintegrating into smaller and smaller fragments, but in the meantime swirled every which way by random currents – braining a salmon here, goosing a trout there – but completely unpredictable as to where they will be at any point or where they'll end up."

"You think that's why Dean hasn't turned back into a human?" Sam clarified.

Sullivan nodded. "I'd say your idea was right. In New Orleans, Dean got 'brained' by a random 'twig' that made him a panther for forty-eight hours but didn't do anything else. A paranormal side effect of the Westlake Ghoul creature's M.O. being control of predatory animals was enough for him to be 'goosed' into being a panther again by another twig."

"But because the twigs have no structure and are highly unstable, there's no structure or stability to their effects either." Sam confirmed.

"That's about the size of it. Dean could have turned back into in a human literally two minutes after he became a panther. He could turn back any second now or he could not turn back for another six months." Sullivan explained.

"Can you reverse the effects?" Sam asked the $64,000 Dollar question.

"I can't," Sullivan admitted, "I don't have that level of mojo, but like they say, I know a man who can. He's probably about the best there is."

"Do you trust him?" Sam interjected with the blunt question.

"Absolutely," Sullivan answered with equal bluntness. "But he lives in Bakersfield."

"_California?_"

"Yup."

Sam closed his eyes in anticipatory pain as he thought of the endless miles between Missouri and Cali'. "Well thanks for offering me a bed, but in that case, we need to hit the road."

"Not much point," Sullivan disagreed. "Since his youngest flew the nest to start at Berkeley he's gone back to living in Waikiki for half the year. He won't be back to his home in Bakersfield for about another week."

Sam looked down at Dean who rolled his haunches in a gesture approximating a shrug; the panther looked unconcerned.

"Besides, we need to fix you up before you go," Sullivan declared. "You were real lucky to get here without any mishaps like getting pulled over, but to make it to Cali we're gonna have to fix you up with an exotic pet licence, and that's just for starters. It's getting on for two in the a.m., so what say you we pick this up tomorrow?"

Sam nodded, recognising the wisdom of Sullivan's words – there was no way he could just jump in the Impala and drive to California with a full grown leopard on the passenger seat next to him no matter how assiduously he stuck to back highways and country roads, because you just knew something would go wrong, and in his present form, Dean could all too easily be shot by some trigger-happy moron.

Going quietly upstairs to avoid disturbing Lucy, Sam did his ablutions and sighed as he slid between the crisp, cool cotton sheets of the bed in the twin-bedded room where the masculine décor indicated it had doubtless been the bedroom of Sullivan's sons Kell and Cassian. The mattress was firm without feeling like granite as were the pillows and the bed was made for a lanky type; bliss.

Dean sprang up on the bottom of the coverlet of the other bed, flopping onto his side with a contented purr.

Sam sniffed at him as he remembered his earlier pique. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You were all over Lucy Sullivan."

Dean's tongue lolled in what could only be described as a gleeful _Yeah, I know_ smirk.

"You're currently a cat – it's disgusting. Like bestiality or something." Sam chided. "Only you could manage to pull off a grab 'n' grope in a situation like this."

But Dean only rolled over so his back was to Sam and made odd grunting noises that Sam finally realised were fake snores.

"Fine, but if Sullivan shoots you, don't say I didn't warn you."

_Continued in Chapter 15…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

**Author's Note:** Sorry, forgot to add this to last chapter – again for UK _Supernatural _fans, most modern computers will play all-region DVDs. If you have this capability, it is worth ignoring the overpriced British _Supernatural_ DVDs and buying the Region 1 from the USA, which I did. The extras are good - most of the episodes have extended/deleted scenes, and it says a lot about the quality of the show that you don't really miss them - I thought only 2 really ought to have been left in - the scene in the pilot showing 'why' Dean went back for Sam and the extended scene in _Home_ where the garage owner explains he called Social Services on John, which is why he 'disappeared' from Lawrence. I didn't get the pilot scene I admit – Dean looks at his watch, frowns and turns the car around. I don't get why that made him go back and save Sam?

Anyway, 2 eps have cast/crew commentaries, there is a good documentary regarding the creation of the show with contributions from everyone, and of course the gag reel, which is good. Watch the bit on the landing stage from _Dead in the Water_ where Jensen leaps into Jared's arms like a frightened Victorian maiden. Either they used 'trick' photography or Jared's workout regime is hardcore – he appears to barely move and easily cradles Jenson in his arms despite the fact that 6'1" of muscle (which is heavier than fat) must have been no joke. The only disappointment was the _Day in the life _featurette that lasted barely ten minutes. I'd kill to have a ten minute workday. But it's hard to be churlish when they were so gracious and good-humoured, and it did demonstrate that their relationship is one of genuine affectionate friendship not some we-all-love-each-other party line from the network. Jensen was sporting a director's round-the-neck camera lens toy that he explained Jared had bought him for his birthday. It was an obviously expensive bit of kit, not some bit of cheap tat picked up as an afterthought – Jared had obviously put time and effort into getting Jensen the present and you can't fake that sort of caring. (In another documentary, not shown on the boxset, I do remember Jensen saying that Jared had bought him a Gameboy also). Anyway, just thought that might be useful for UK fans who are feeling depressed at the lack of Supernaturalness in their lives!


	15. Chapter 15

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 15**

As it happened, Lucy left the next morning. Sam had woken to the delicious smell of bacon, ham, eggs, biscuits and fresh coffee and had experienced the first real pangs of hunger he'd felt in…so long he couldn't remember.

He got up, washed and shaved and dressed with untypical alacrity. When he was under stress, the first thing that went was his appetite; the second thing that kicked off was that any food, but especially junk, hit his stomach like a medicine ball and lay there uncomfortably for hours, and if things got really wound up Number Three would threaten – his tendency to be unable to keep what he ate down there long enough for any nutrients to be absorbed at all before it insisted on using his oesophagus as a two-way rather than a one-way street. Unfortunately when you were 6' 4" and lived a lifestyle diametrically opposed to anything even remotely resembling that of 'couch potato' you couldn't really afford to cut down on the calories too often or for too long before lithe became skinny and lean became skeletal. So Sam intended to take the opportunity to ingest hearty home cooking as long as his digestion was happy to embrace it.

Like the night before, Lucy had done 'pigs-in-blankets', sausages wrapped in bacon, for Dean and piled a large breakfast bowl high with them, biscuits and hash browns, plus another bowl with black coffee for him. Dean, the creep, ignored the bounty for a good ten seconds to purr and rub his head against Lucy's arm. Sam fought the urge to gag as she actually cooed. Dean padded down to her car with her and actually raised one foreleg in a jerky waving motion as she drove down the drive, sauntering back up and past Sam with a distinct 'I'm still gorgeous and I know it' aura.

But the day was profitably spent. What Sullivan couldn't hack into wasn't worth hacking into. By lunch time, Sam had an excellently faked exotic animal licence that also existed on screen, though not, of course, on paper anywhere. Next job was to clear out the Impala's glove box of fake IDs until all that was left was Sam's passport and Driver's Licence.

Dean had had his own real ID on him when he was transformed, and Sam could only presume that like his brother's clothing, it formed part of his panther flesh – and hope it would be restored with him, also hopefully along with his clothing – he and Dean had seen each other naked almost daily all their lives, from young childhood bathing in icy forest rivers to crummy motel bathrooms last week, but that didn't mean Sam had to _like _it. The female half of the human species such as Lucy Sullivan might find the notion delectable, but Sam could quite happily do without Dean suddenly turning back into a full-frontal male nude barely and _barely_ a foot away from him, thank you very much.

However, Sullivan stopped Sam clearing out the trunk of weaponry or their Hunting paraphernalia, showing instead the two sets of 'business cards' that he had printed out.

"Got the idea from Georgie; he's an English Hunter," Sullivan explained to Sam as he showed them. "His family have been Hunters since…hell, they trace their line back to Merlin and King Arthur and all that. He's more widely known as Major-General Lord Kinsey Lynulph Alexander Victor Bentinck Bentinck-Grosvenor-Howard, Earl of Roxleigh…he'll eventually be something like the 23rd Marquess St. Cyr or some such when his Daddy passes on."

"Wow." Sam frowned, "Wait…'Georgie'?"

"It's an English thing." Sullivan shrugged. "Anyhow, over the pond they have real trouble with the 'animal rights' brigade. Rabid fanatics who blow up cars and shit to save bunny rabbits and who'd see kids die of leukaemia rather than sacrificing a beagle to find a cure. When he Hunts, he usually goes as an Animal Control guy – shoot the vermin plaguing your estate, sir, no problem. Nobody knows if he bags a werewolf or a black dog or a vampire in the process. But sometimes if there are animal rights activists lurking he uses these other cards so everyone just laughs at him as a crackpot but of course then _leaves him alone_. English nobles are legendary for being eccentric – it's almost a crime _not_ to be slightly strange if you're an English aristocrat. So he dishes these out instead."

Sam looked at the two sets of business cards keenly, appreciating the simplicity yet brilliance of the idea. One set of business cards proclaimed Samuel Winchester as an 'Animal Control Specialist' fully licensed and equipped to deal with any conservation and stock control difficulty. The other set of business cards declared him to be a parapsychologist and a paranormal investigator - basically a ghost hunter. The former business cards, especially after Sullivan's helpful hacking, gave him a legitimate reason (and licences) for the firearms in the trunk, while the latter business cards gave him a legitimate excuse to be toting around nearly a gallon of Holy Water, rock salt 'bullets', nine types of cross, rosary beads, an Islamic crescent moon, a Star of David, representations of practically every deity of every culture going, plus sigils and symbols of everything from Tibetan meditation to ancient Babylonian protection wards - plus crossbows, maces, axes, sharp swords and other stuff not often seen outside of a mediocre sword 'n' sorcery _Conan the Barbarian_ knock-off movie.

By the time all the inks were dry and all the appropriate databases had been hacked into, it was dusk again, and Sam wasn't going to pass up the opportunity for what was likely to be his last night in a decent bed for at least a week. Sullivan was good company, telling stories about his hunting exploits, and perceptively regaling them with several humorous anecdotes involving John Winchester.

It was clear to Sullivan that there was a great deal of constraint, albeit not quite as much as had existed at one point, between Sam Winchester and John; the boy betrayed it with every flick of an eyelash and micro-hesitancy of speech. For all his current state, Dean still came across to Sullivan as more John's fellow soldier than his son, which was a pity.

Sullivan had no intention of them ever knowing that when John had first come to the ranch those years ago, he had decided to place the boys in the foster care system in the misguided belief that letting them take their chances there was better than them remaining with him. At the time, John had not long left Lawrence, forced to do so after his former business partner, with whom he had co-owned Lawrence's Auto-Repair Garage, had called Social Services in on him and the boys. In a strange kind of way, it had been worse because the man had not acted out malice or an attempt to 'grab' the entire business, but because he considered himself John's friend and was genuinely concerned.

The business had been popular, well-respected and lucrative, yet John had sold his half to his partner for a fraction of the real market value and to the man's disquiet, blown most of the money on firearms. Even though he was a hunter himself, Sullivan could understand that perspective – it was exactly the way Lily had reacted when she found her husband's secret room. At the time Dean had just turned five and Sammy was only about nine months old.

Lily had been instrumental in changing John's mind – she had been in foster care from the age of fourteen with her sixteen-year-old brother following the loss of their parents and elder sister in a freeway pileup. She had never been abused or mistreated, but had described the inflexible bureaucracy and overworked, world-weary Child Protection Services social workers as 'pitiless', more concerned about adhering to regulations that would allow them to avoid being sued than applying common sense or any compassion. Not above a little emotional manipulation, Lily had told John in great detail how Sammy – young enough to still be nothing other than 'sweet' and 'adorable' – would be adopted within weeks by a white bread, middle-management couple with a cute Labrador puppy and a station wagon and a white picket fence.

The couple, while 'nice' would, however, have no ability or desire to cope with Dean, who was too old to be 'cute' and who would spend the rest of his life bounced around the foster system because prospective adoptive parents would be handed a file covered in labels such as 'traumatised', 'withdrawn', 'emotionally troubled', 'academically slow' and so forth. She'd stressed that the two brothers would probably never see each other again until after Sam had reached eighteen, if then.

That had been that. John had left with a renewed determination to work harder at being a father as much as he was able. Missouri Moseley had once told Lily that she was a living saint who had saved Sam from suffering a terrible life with people who were too rigid in their thinking to either understand or accept his burgeoning abilities. When Sam's psychic and telekinetic talents began to manifest, his adoptive family would have ended up drugging him to the eyeballs on the say-so of clueless psychologists and finally leaving him to be forgotten in a sanatorium somewhere. John Winchester would probably never win any Father of the Year awards, but he genuinely loved his sons and was far more capable of helping Sam with his gifts.

Sullivan explained that 'Kala' was Polynesian-American, a kahuna shaman with great abilities to heal, control the weather and so forth. Huna was a Hawaiian shamanistic tradition which emphasised control of the mind and psychic abilities, thus rendering practitioners better protected from their psyches being demonically 'carjacked'. Kala was one of the most highly regarded Kahunas on the American mainland, even more so as he was _bona fide _royalty, a cousin of the late Tongan King Tāufa'āhau Tupou IV and a direct descendent from the last Hawaiian Queen Liliuokalani; many Hawaiian nationalists campaigning for sovereignty and pointing out the ridiculousness of Hawaii being an American State when separated from the very continent by 500 miles of ocean, viewed him as the _de facto_ Hawaiian King.

Sam was reassured by Sullivan's praise and his assurance that Sullivan would leave messages for Kala so he knew to expect Sam and Dean. Of course sometimes people could fool you, but nobody could hide their true nature forever. Considering Sullivan's experience as a Hunter, it was unlikely Kala would have been able to deceive him for long if the man weren't on the level.

Sam was aware he was being rather too paranoid, but as he drove away from Sullivan's ranch the next morning on the first leg of the journey to Bakersfield, he didn't really care; he would do whatever it took to protect Dean's welfare. Indeed, if their situations had been reversed, Dean would probably have demanded an affidavit of goodness signed in Kala's own blood and a personal recommendation from the Almighty before he let the man anywhere Sam-the-cat, and Sam was no less over-protective of his brother.

Although they could not entirely avoid the main routes, they had managed by virtue of poring over Sullivan's collection of maps to sketch a back-roads passage that wouldn't cause too much meandering. However, Sam knew it wouldn't be easy as American road maps tended to be the 'English people' of cartography – highly eccentric. Since most Americans travelled anywhere 'away' from home (assuming they did not use planes or trains or buses) via Interstates, Freeways and Highways, usually only the 'born-and-bred' natives regularly traversed local roads and streets.

Due to this, even regional/local maps were often arbitrary and confusing. Roads shown on a map ten-years-old might have vanished from an 'updated' one only five-years-old but then if you looked at a two-year-old map some – but not all – of those roads would be shown there again as if they'd never left. They also often didn't distinguish between back road A and back road B, when A might be a convenient, well-repaired, blacktopped shortcut but it's apparent 'twin' B would gradually degenerate into a gravel lane with Grand Canyon-esque pot holes and then into a meandering, rutted dirt track that was transformed into a swampy quagmire at the merest hint of a light shower.

Despite his trepidation and visions of ending up trapped for all eternity like some sort of vehicular _Flying Dutchman_ driving up and down roads but never able to reach a destination, the first day's driving was quite easy, as the roads were surprisingly well-repaired and signed.

Sam pulled over at the base of a small, flat topped hillock partway up a wooded slope that would be suitable for pitching their tent for the night. He had decided against arguing with a motel proprietor about their 'pet friendly' policies applying to panthers and if possible intended for Dean to be well out of earshot when he referred to the cat using the word p-e-t anyway.

It had been a sunny day and the ground was dry without being a fire hazard and flat, so Sam pitched the tent and made a small fire, before pouring a protective salt circle around the top of the hillock. There were no indications of anything untoward but the Winchesters had long ago stolen the Boy Scout motto of 'always be prepared'. There was a fast-flowing, shallow river further along the slope and he filled the camp kettle with water, boiling it to make some soup up while he stretched and limbered up after a day spent in the car.

Finally he was ready for some shut-eye. Banking up the fire, Sam moved to block Dean's entry to the tent. "Whoa…I don't think so. You're rank."

Dean stopped, ears pricked in confusion, before trying to go past Sam again.

"I said no way!" Sam pushed his hand against the cat's chest eliciting an irritated hiss. "Dude…" he looked Dean straight in the face. "I am not sharing a tent with you until you've cleaned up."

Blank look.

"You. Smell." Sam enunciated. "…_Worse_ than when Constance Welch forced you off that bridge."

Dean looked down at himself then up at Sam with an indignant snarl and tried to push past, but Sam had seen the left shoulder drop slightly to make the 'barge' and so resisted. Dean showed his fangs warningly.

"Forget it; I am not sharing the measly inches of space in there with that stench. Go wash!"

Dean looked at the icy river and then back at Sam with a definite 'no way José' attitude.

Sam gave an exaggerated sigh. "Dean, do you know why cats have that sandpaper tongue? Because they're fastidious about personal hygiene; cats lick themselves clean about ten times every hour."

Dean's expression was one of incredulous not-in-this-or-any-other-lifetime refusal.

"The reason for that is that animal fur is Paradise for dust and germs and mites, and a billion bits of atmospheric grime." Sam persisted. "I dread to think what you may have given poor Lucy Sullivan when you were all over her like a bad rash."

Dean growled, clearly affronted, but looked down at himself dubiously again.

"Come on, Dean Winchester, demon Hunter, scared of a little cold water?" jeered Sam provokingly. "Besides, this is, like, the ultimate male fantasy."

Quizzical head tilt.

"You're the only guy in history who can actually lick your own balls."

_Continued in Chapter 16…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	16. Chapter 16

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW **

**Chapter 16**

Sam gave a growl himself as Dean stuck his currently big and furry head in the sack. "In a minute, I said."

Rumbling purr-growl that Sam knew meant 'get on with it'.

"Honestly, you have the patience of a gerbil." He chided, but without heat, in fact trying not smile at the panther's fidgeting.

Last night, Dean's expression had been worth charging admission for, and as the panther stalked off to the river, Sam had had to stuff his jacket sleeve in his mouth to muffle the sounds as he rocked with laughter.

Eventually, Dean had come back, soaking wet and with tufts of fur sticking out all over the place. He had actually snarled as Sam got a big towel and the clothes brush out, but Sam had declared that there was no point in swapping 'rank' fur for 'dank' fur.

"Besides," he'd told Dean, "if you don't get dry, your fur will dry out all fluffy and 'blow-dried' – do you _really_ want to look like one of those sickeningly cutesy My First Kitten calendars they sell in Toys 'R' Us® right next to the My Little Pony® shelf?"

That had clinched it, and apart from the odd twitch of his tail, Dean had remained still while Sam patted his fur dry and brushed his back, flanks and chest, though unlike when Dean had been tranked, he ventured nowhere near Dean's more delicate anatomy.

They had made an early start the next morning, mainly due to the woodchuck making a racket from – oh yes, six in the a.m. Dean had flowed out of the tent and had actually started to stalk the unsuspecting noise polluter with an air of grim intent. Knowing how Dean liked his sleep, Sam had called him off, however; the encounter with the bear had amply proven that Dean had the reflexes of a leopard, happily, but Sam knew his brother. If he caught the Woodchuck it would either die of fright or else Dean would clumsily kill it without meaning to and that would upset him.

They'd made good time and so Sam had stopped off at a little mom 'n' pop store to get brunch and coffee for Dean, who had been shoving the bowl into Sam's thigh for the previous half-mile. Sam had asked Sullivan's permission to take the breakfast bowl with them; while eating food from a plate was not really a problem as long as Dean was careful, liquids were another story, and the bowl was the best solution. Dean had taken it in his mouth and placed it on the front seat, to Sam's surprise, though that surprise was solved when Dean began shoving the bowl at him with increasing vigour, though of course it had eliminated the need to play 'Guess the Growl' a dozen times until he finally narrowed it to 'You need coffee right now?'

Making his purchases, Sam had glanced out of the store window and nearly bit his tongue as he clenched his teeth to stop the guffaws. Outside in the Impala, Dean was sitting on his haunches and had raised his left foreleg close to his face as if myopic, before tentatively flicking out his tongue and licking his paw. After a second the cat's face contorted into a look of acute disgust and the foreleg went down with a firmness that indicated real cats could lick as they liked, Dean intended to stick to soap and water.

So Sam had made a few more purchases. When he'd got back in the car, Dean had sniffed the air and then tried to peer in the bag at the well-wrapped white package Sam had in the bottom, growling softly.

"It's a surprise," Sam had told him firmly, moving the bag out of the way.

Again it was another good day's driving; Sam had only got slightly lost once and then not by much. Finally he had pulled into the camping ground, currently deserted due to it being out-of-season and busied himself setting up the tent, starting the fire, pouring the salt and putting a pot of water on the fire. Normally he and Dean would have just shared the chores without thinking about it, but of course Sam was also teasing Dean by eking the chores out slightly longer than normal, until Dean caught on and started pawing at the package to try and open it himself.

"Ah, ah!" Sam now scolded, plucking it up and holding it way above Dean's head, unless he wanted to try another of those ten-foot vertical leaps. "Behave, or you won't get any."

Soft, drawn-out growl that Sam nevertheless _knew_ was: _Payback's a bitch, Sammy_…

Setting a skillet over the flames, Sam unwrapped the package to reveal long links of thick, meaty sausages. Dean licked his chops and the growl changed instantly to a purr.

"Thought you'd like that, huh?" Sam chuckled, separating the links and placing the first sausages in the pan.

They'd been local produce and the store's most expensive, and as Sam had hoped, that meant they were good quality, containing little other than meat and fat as opposed to the standard supermarket garbage of wheat husks, gristle, chemicals, water, corn flour and flavouring.

They sizzled enticingly and he warned, "Don't burn your mouth," as he put them on a plate, stabbing one with a fork.

The sausage was very nice, and Sam ate it with vocal relish – since that was all part of his plan.

Despite his sometimes dubious ideas of what constituted nutrition, Dean had always eaten more than Sam but weighed less. That wasn't anything to worry about, as some people were blessed with a metabolism that was cranked up into a higher gear than most. But Dean lived a highly active lifestyle where an 'average' day could see him running a near marathon, fighting for a solid half-hour and getting hurled across the room by something paranormal and pissed. He therefore needed plenty of calories.

Since the New Orleans witch doctor had intended Dean to be shot as an escaped illegal pet, the leopard would have had to have passed muster in the regulation autopsy performed by a vet, so just like with Dean's panther reflexes, Sam presumed he had the panther's metabolism. Leopards did not eat their own bodyweight in gazelle because they were greedy, but because they needed the nourishment. In short, one cheeseburger and fries didn't cut it.

The way Lucy had piled Dean's bowl high with pigs-in-blankets had given Sam the idea when in the mom 'n' pop store. Now, smacking his lips, he put more sausages on, exchanging grins with Dean, though his was more because his plan had worked.

By showing clear enthusiasm for the sausages, but by pretending that each one was hotter than in fact, the evening meal passed without Dean being aware that Sam only ate one sausage for every three Dean consumed, and that Sam's postprandial belch and patting of a distended tummy was just an act.

_Continued in Chapter 17…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

**Author's Note:** Can any reader help me? Some time ago I read a short story on ffnet – 1 chapter, 2? – where the boys were in a bar and had little money. Sam was despondent over 'leeching' off Dean but was then approached by a "cougar", an older woman in her 40s who offered him several 100 dollars to have sex with her. Sam agreed and tried to blow Dean off but Dean wasn't having any of it and detonated when he found out what was going on. I may need to credit the author(ess) but with my usual sieve-headedness I can remember neither the story title nor the author.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** At this point I would like to say "thank you" to everyone who reviews this story positively – there are too many to mention. It is very encouraging, especially as I needed to write a lighter story to get me past _The Scent of You_ – I still think that is the best story I've ever done, but "grim" didn't even begin to cover it. I am working on another SN story already (I hope to finish _I Thought I Saw_ and _Net Knots _soon) but I've got to do a major rewrite now John is "dead" (not that I believe he's gone – John wouldn't have just caved in and given Old Yeller everything it wanted unless he had a plan; this guy advanced to triple-think years ago – the demon may think it's winning but John W is playing a long game.)

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 17**

The following morning was again sunny and clear, and they got a good start. But midmorning Sam was forced to take a two-hour detour around a truck stuck on a bridge, so 'they' decided to skip a lunch stop and carry on. It never occurred to Sam in the slightest to realise how amazing it was that he perfectly understood the nuances of a tail twitch or the movement of an ear or the narrowing of eyes, or the inflexions conveyed by every growl and purr and snarl, without any difficulty whatsoever. Had the notion ever been raised, his response would have been simple and baffled as to why there should be any perception of a problem – the panther was Dean. Dean was Dean, regardless of form, end of story.

Sam was just beginning to relax as he compared what the clock read to the mileage covered, when he glanced in the Impala's rear-view mirror and realised they'd picked up a tail. Currently the state trooper was quite far back, and Sam knew that the official's interest at this stage was desultory, especially as Dean was lying down on the front seat and so couldn't be seen. The trooper hadn't yet decided to harass, but the longer Sam drove without stopping, even though he was within the speed limit and had no infractions such as broken taillights, the trooper was more likely to realise he wasn't a 'local boy' and pull him over on suspicion of suspicion.

Sam drove on for a few more miles, Dean motionless with tension beside him as the cat seemed to be willing itself to either turn invisible or back into Dean, neither of which were working. But just as Sam was sure the trooper was going to hit the lights any second, an unlikely saviour appeared in the form of a souped-up, garishly spray-painted hot rod Mustang that hurtled out of a side road in a cloud of dust like a grouse flushed from a covert, cutting the Impala up and forcing Sam to swerve onto the verge and brake sharply as the billowing dust cloud enveloped the car.

With a startled yowl, Dean half slid off the seat with his back end into the foot well, but given this bigger, brighter, juicier prey, the state trooper took off after the hot rod in a cacophony of sirens and lights.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked worriedly as the panther hauled itself back onto the seat.

Dean nodded vigorously and his tongue lolled in a grin as they watched the fast moving dust cloud heading away.

Pulling back onto the road with a sigh of relief, Sam carried on, and a mile-and-a-half up ahead, just before the next crossroads, they came upon the car – a 1965 Mustang - again, now pulled over, with a sulky-faced young man who looked to be around Sam's age being spoken to by the state trooper. Unlike Dean, who carried his 'bad boy' image with the saving grace of wit, charm and an underlying decency of character, the hot rod driver radiated truculence and surliness, eyeing the trooper with poorly-hidden contempt. Dean, for all his aversion to close encounters with law enforcement, never looked down upon or despised what he knew to be hard-working people doing a very dangerous job.

As Sam drove slowly past, Dean put his paws on the back of the front-seat and yawned, giving the hot rod driver a close-up-and-personal view of how impressive a full-grown male leopard in its prime was.

The hot rod driver did the classic comic double-take, his eyes bulging with terror as he scrabbled backwards, frantically gibbering and gesticulating at the Impala. With an expression of blank disbelief the trooper turned and looked at the Impala, where Dean was now crouched down in the foot well completely hidden from view, and all that the trooper saw was a clean-cut young man driving sensibly to the junction in an otherwise unoccupied vehicle.

Safely out of sight, Sam let out the belly laugh, "Dean, you are _bad!_"

The panther made that soft rasping sound that was Dean laughing in this form.

Sam chortled as he tried to imprint the hot rod driver's shell-shocked expression on his memory for future nostalgic amusement, "You're a mean ole pussy cat…now he'll be hauled off for a drugs test as well as traffic violations…I bet a full-on body cavity search…hear the snap of those latex gloves and, "'Spread 'em, boy'", his wiener will shrivel up from fright and he'll be all goose-pimply from the cold…and terror…"

Sam cackled gleefully and was unprepared for Dean's sudden loud growl or having half his lap abruptly full of leopard.

"Dean!" Again Sam was forced to swerve into the side else lose control. Vainly he tried to push Dean off but the big cat snarled and butted him hard with its head, Dean shoving his face close-up so Sam couldn't break eye contact.

"Dean, what the hell…" Sam broke off as he replayed the last thirty seconds in his head…

Oops. _Many a true word is spoken in jest _came right after _in vino, veritas_ in a list of the ways that people tend to 'inadvertently let something slip they didn't mean to' because they were too busy laughing to censor their speech, or had drunk not wisely but too well.

"Dean, relax…" Sam patted the haunches reassuringly, keeping eye contact and smiling with genuine unconcern. "I got caught up in a couple of drug searches at Stanford; occupational hazard of being a college student under the age of twenty-one. Now will you _get off…_"

Dean didn't budge an inch, and Sam recognised both the stance and the fixed glare; overprotective big brother was in the house and Dean wasn't shifting until he got chapter and verse. Sam was acutely aware that they couldn't dawdle lest they be caught out by the state trooper passing with his 'deluded' prisoner, so he gave in.

Exaggeratedly sighing, Sam nevertheless kept his arms around Dean's neck as he gave the Cliff Notes. "The Palo Alto PD were great people, but you'll always get the odd dinosaur that equates anyone under twenty-one who doesn't look like they've just graduated a military prep school as a deviant social delinquent. That's all it was, and it didn't bother me. A body cavity search is about power and trying to instil fear, to dominate and intimidate the other person. I spent half my life running butt naked in the woods and when you grow up fighting black dogs and wendigous, some bully hiding behind a badge or a Dr Mengele-fan thinking he's scaring you shitless by donning a pair of rubber gloves isn't going to cut it. That's it."

Dean condescended to move away slightly, growling softly.

Sam took the chance and placed his hand on Dean's chest over the white tuft and gave a firm shove so he could manoeuvre the Impala back onto the road again. "It was twice in four years, and that's all there is to it," he fibbed. "The second time they made the mistake of scooping up a 'son of…' on the peripherals. The guy was smart enough to just stay quiet and meek like a good little mouse and then got the university and his parents involved. He sued the PD for everything from defamation of character to impugning the reputation of Stanford, to besmirching his family name, and more civil rights violations than you could shake a stick at. After he'd finished the PD put the troublemakers out to pasture on early retirement."

Dean settled back down again, mollified by his baby brother's obvious lack of concern at the occurrences. Sam drove, making sure he kept his face relaxed. It hadn't _quite_ been that plain sailing. The first time he'd been inadvertently caught in the dragnet, he'd been homed in on by a big, beefy type running to seed and middle-aged spread who had attempted to browbeat the one Freshman kid who had had no family running to bail him out, who had not requested his 'phone call' or threatened the PD with everything from his parents to suing them into the next century.

The guy had even insisted on staying through the cavity search and had swaggered around the room, eyeing Sam, shivering with cold, with slightly too prurient interest. Sam had strongly suspected the guy got off on watching the cavity searches of adolescent boys and that unpunished paedophilic tendency had made him mad enough for the Winchester steel to come to the fore. Was this guy as bad as a Wendigou, he had demanded of himself, or a black dog? By the time he'd gone down the list to vampires, he was no longer shivering and eyeing the guy back with a cold and steely gaze.

Still it had been a not-fun experience but Sam knew better than to admit such a thing, else as soon as they hit Cali, Dean would be running off from Bakersfield to Palo Alto to show the dude why it was fatal to upset a guy whose brother could turn into a badass panther and eat your face off. It was time to lighten things up again.

They pulled into a deserted, but more basic, 'camp' ground. Sam started what had become a nightly ritual of tent up, salt circle poured, fire made. He banked the fire carefully, so it would stay lit all night, and went in and out of the tent for several items casually. Eventually, as Dean was enjoying the fire as close as he could without being singed, Sam ducked back inside the tent yet again, only to quickly zip up the door from the inside so Dean was stuck outside. Considering his choices, Sam cleared his throat and sang loudly:

"Oooooh what's new, pussy cat, whooo-whooo, what's new pussy cat! Whooo-whoo!"

The tent fabric bulged in as something large and angry hit it.

Regrettably, that was Sam's complete knowledge of the Tom Jones' hit, so he switched to cartoons, "Top Cat! The one and only Top Cat..!", as the tent showed repeated bulges.

Not remembering the words to that either, next came Tweety-Pie:

"A puddy cat! I tawt I saw a puddy cat! I deeeed! I deeed! I saw a puddy tat!"

Followed by poetry:

"MacCavity, MacCavity, there never was a cat of such sagacity…"

After that point, Sam had to stop, not because he'd run out of material, but because all his air was taken up with breathing as he curled into a ball and howled with laughter, moaning intermittently as his ribs hurt with hilarity before another gale of mirth overtook him and he was reduced once more to wailing, "Hooooo-Hoooo-Hooo!!" cries.

Since Dean retained his sentience and sense of self, Sam wasn't quite as untouchable as he would otherwise have been. There was the rasp of the tent being unzipped from the outside by dint of a claw being hooked in the zipper, but Sam was too weak to do anything but rock with hilarity and gasp out…'puddy tat', tears streaming down his face, even when he was pounced upon by a heavy weight and batted with big paws.

"Uncle! Uncle!" Sam cried out finally.

Since it was a universal law that hostilities could not be continued once this cry of surrender had been uttered, Dean backed away, still huffing softly.

Sam managed to sit up, wiping away tears of laughter and composing himself. His ribs actually hurt from mirth. He grinned at the panther; Dean's claws had never unsheathed and Sam's flesh didn't even sting - there wouldn't be a single mark. It was like being beaten with velvet handkerchiefs.

"I was only joking, man," he reached out and stroked the panther's back. "You know that."

Dean huffed again in that attitude of 'I'm cool.'

Manfully suppressing a grin, Sam gave Dean a final pat and set about settling down for the night. The next time he zipped up the tent, Dean was securely inside. It was a slightly chill night and Sam instinctively moved closer to the source of warmth, burying his face and cuddling close like Dean was his old teddy bear Mr Fozzy, periodically making happy murmuring sounds and rubbing his face against the silky fur. With a tenderness that would never be demonstrated when Sam was awake, or Dean in human form, the panther gently nuzzled Sam and curled itself around him to provide maximum warmth.

_Continued in Chapter 18…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	18. Chapter 18

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 18**

The following day Sam managed to make up the lost time, but about mid-afternoon the sky began to cloud over. They picked up a local radio station burbling on about the big storm front moving in and this pretty soon became a universal topic of the airwaves. With the inane cheer of people who were going to spend their night in dry and cosy warmth, the disc jockeys prattled on enthusiastically about the humongous thunderhead clouds – one actually managed to use the term 'cumulus' in context - and the tons of water stored overhead in the form of vapour just waiting to come hurtling down on any hapless schmuck who was out in it – i.e., people other than them.

"'Bigguh th'n thuh Great Cloudburst o' '62; now that was _huger _th'n th' Great Cloudburst of Wompet Swamp, which completely washed away Big Stinky and Stenchville too'" were the sort of conversations increasingly held between the vapid DJ of the moment and some braying trailer-park woman on the phone-in who broke off every three seconds to scream at her passel of offspring - Lonnie, Donnie, Ronnie, Bonnie, Connie, and Burt.

By four o'clock, the sky was nearly the same colour as Dean and the Impala.

Sam exchanged a worried look with Dean. "It'll have to be a hotel; I don't fancy setting the tent up in that lot."

The cat nodded sombrely, rumbling agreement.

As always, the instant you wanted one, anything resembling a hotel or motel promptly became scarcer than hen's teeth. Keeping a wary eye on the increasingly ominous skyline that they were driving into, Sam risked putting his foot down a little as the scenery went past with no buildings of any kind. Finally seeing a flash of neon he pulled over to what turned out to be a rundown looking motel, though certainly no worse than many.

Pulling up outside the reception lobby, Sam went in and found a skinny, sour-faced man watching the TV, who got up reluctantly and displayed twin rows of bad teeth stained with nicotine that for a moment reminded Sam queasily of Pa Bender's rotted mouth. The motel consisted of just a 'two-storey' row of rooms with the lobby at one end, and he took the farthest-most single room on the bottom storey at the end of the row. A buck-toothed kid with bad skin ghosted out of the back room and shoved the key over the counter as if believing that touching Sam would somehow contaminate him. There was no signage indicating guests bringing animals, so Sam decided to take it as read they were welcome - he certainly had no intention of trying to explain a panther.

Moving the Impala so it was parked directly in front of the room, Sam locked it and got their holdall inside the room literally seconds before there started a pattering sound outside. Looking out of the window, he and Dean watched as the few fat drops of rain became a torrential downpour that bounced off almost everything it touched. Sam mentally patted himself on the back for having the forethought to get some packet food at the mom 'n' pop store where he picked up the sausages. Driving was not an option as visibility would be zero, and finding somewhere to get food and get it back to the room for Dean without it being a sodden mess would have been impossible.

"Cup-a-Soup...sorry, Dean." he apologised.

The panther shrugged without concern as Sam tossed the holdall on the bed, but then moved forward and butted Sam with his head sending Sam back a step.

"What?"

Dean continued to shove at Sam until he was backed into the bathroom doorway.

"You want me to stay in the bathroom?" Sam asked, confused.

Dean rolled his eyes in an arch-type don't-be-dense manner and made a strange snorting sound.

It suddenly clicked that Dean was ostentatiously sniffing the air, as in...

"You want me to take a shower..." Sam spluttered as he got it, "Hah-very-hah."

Dean made that more-purr-than-growl noise, his attitude almost kittenish.

Since being around Dean for any length time meant you had to take it as well as dish it out, Sam obediently got his stuff and hit the shower. Not that he would admit it but Dean had a point. He wasn't unsociable yet but there was a definite hint of ripeness.

Driving for several days in the same clothes, crashing in a tent and quick washes in a cold river didn't make you filthy but Sam felt tired and grimy. Despite the unprepossessing pair in the lobby, the room was clean if shabby and the shower was decent enough with plenty of hot water - not surprising since including Sam there looked to be about three guests.

As with most places that hadn't got cable, the TV channel choice was extremely limited, not a good thing considering how truly bad American TV shows were at the best of times. Apart from a few grainy reruns of **_Happy Days_ – **and worse the last two seasons where the crew basically just filmed the cast sleepwalking around the set it seemed like – and even grainier reruns of **_Leave It To Beaver_**, the only other thing was PNT. Public Network Television was supposed to be educational TV, and publicly funded meant it had less money than a church mouse. PNT _mugged_ church mice. Needless to say, the quality of the programmes started at 'excruciating' and went downhill from there.

However, the bed was half-decent and so once he'd showered (and deliberately splashed on enough aftershave to make Dean sneeze) Sam warmed up the cup-a-soups and after washing out Dean's bowl in the bathroom sink, he turned in, wriggling pleasurably against the solid mattress; not nearly as good as Sullivan's, but definitely endurable. One thing the room did lack was a nice ambient temperature, it being barely warm enough _not_ to make that little white cloud every time you breathed. Still, Sam had the solution…

"Dean, lay on my feet."

The panther, that had been curled up on the bottom of the bed, raised its head and looked at Sam's face in confusion and then towards where he was wiggling his toes under the covers.

"Yes, that's what I said, my feet." Sam put on his most pouting _I'm-your-baby-brother_ face, "'M cold."

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically but stood up and padded ten inches to the left so he was lying on top of where Sam's feet were under the covers. Almost immediately warmth began to radiate through the cloth and within five minutes Sam was sound asleep to the extent of snoring and drool. Eventually Dean uncurled his feline frame and stretched his now long length out beside Sam as he realised that, in his sleep, Sam was gradually working his way down the bed seeking the source of that cosy warmth and otherwise the pair of them would end up occupying nothing but the bottom foot of the bed. Instantly Sam rolled over and snuggled close, mumbling contentedly under his breath.

_Continued in Chapter 19…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

Author's Note: Aaaagh! I hate technology! Agh! Agh! clears throat . Ahem…please can I make the following requests: there was an author who used the phrase "burn 'em and urn em" in a supernatural fanfic. Please contact me with your name and the story you used it in. Also, there was a story set after the demon was dead where Sam or Dean? Became a carnival fighter and then the other brother showed. And another story – which I have just read recently for crying out loud – where Dean is cursed to die before sunset and Sam won't abandon him to his fate? Anyone who can tell me authors or titles will be much liked. Now, if you'll excuse me, an infernal machine has a ménage a trois my frustration and a large mallet.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 19**

Sam came awake abruptly but alert to find himself facing the bedside clock's LED that read 2:37a.m. Pushing himself up with his hands so he was half-propped up in bed, he reached out and turned the light on with the switch next to the bed, and raised his eyebrows as he took in the _mise-en-scene_.

"Can I help you?" Sam enquired sarcastically, "I don't recall asking for a wake-up call."

The bad-complexioned kid from the lobby's back room made barely audible little _hnh-hnh-hnh_ sounds as he tried to press himself back _through_ the motel room's wall, an understandable reaction with 160lbs of panther crouched on the bed not a foot away, a panther currently with its lips curled back to reveal every millimetre of very sharp teeth glistening with anticipatory saliva and making a very soft, sibilant, and utterly petrifying snarling sound in its throat.

"Give me one good reason why I don't let him _eat you_!" Sam demanded in a hard tone, biting the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling as fortunately the kid's abject terror made him completely miss the look Dean threw Sam which silently but eloquently declared that if Sam thought Dean was putting _his_ mouth _anywhere_ near this creature, Sam was _insane_.

"Hnhhhh…" it was a low whimper of raw fear and a suddenly pungent odour made Sam wrinkle his nose; the dark stain on the front of the kid's pants showing clearly where he had lost control of his bladder from sheer terror.

"Empty out your pockets!" Sam had no pity.

Dropping the small flick knife that showed how he had jimmied the motel room door lock, fingers scrabbling spasmodically, the kid never took his eyes off Dean as he tugged at his pockets blindly, and a large number of crumpled bills fell on the bed and the floor.

Clearly Sam had not been the first victim of the night. His lips thinned as he looked at the money and recognised the sneak thief standard. Break into a room, take the cash, but leave the purse or billfold in place. If the victim did wake up, which usually did not happen until the following morning anyway, he or she saw the wallet/purse right where it was supposed to be and thought no more of it until they came to check out of the room, or pay for breakfast, or tip the maid, at which point they opened the billfold and discovered nothing but lint. By that time the thief was hours gone and their money had been spent usually on cigarettes, booze, injecting a needle into a vein, slot machines or hookers or any combination thereof.

"It's your lucky night," Sam told the thief, "because I'm not especially cranky. Now, I suggest you move – _veeeeeery slowly _– across the room until you reach the door. At which point you will step outside, shut it quietly after you and _run like hell_. And I seriously hope you will think deep, deep thoughts about the inadvisability of entering people's rooms uninvited in future. Now, get out."

His eyes never leaving Dean's position, the kid sort of moved back towards the door along the wall, not so much walking but pulling his body along the wall like an earthworm undulating through soil. Once outside he shut the door with trembling hands and then they heard the pounding of feet rapidly dwindling in the distance.

Sam snorted with laughter. "Oh man!" Pushing back the covers he hutched down the bed and wrapped his arms around Dean's neck in a quick, tight hug, "Big brother, sometimes you are a total pain in the ass, but then there are times when you're all worth it. C'mere!" He planted a hard kiss on the top of Dean's skull, ignoring the panther's indignant growl and attempt to jerk away.

Releasing the huffing panther, Sam collected the bills up and smoothed them out into one wad, counting them as Dean watched next to him. He shook his head as the amount totalled $2,100, which he had no compunction about putting inside his jacket. There was no way to know from whom the kid had taken the money and if the boy had been mobile, with a car or a bike, he could have stolen from other motels. This motel only had two or three other guests besides Sam, and he doubted the boy would have stolen from all of them, as that would have been so obvious as to be simply an invitation to be arrested. Besides, the sort of people who frequented these sorts of motels and who customarily carried such amounts of cash tended to be drug dealers, pimps and the like – not inclined to believe any story that Sam had managed to outwit the 'real' thief.

Sam knew he had probably been targeted because he had booked into a single room. Without Dean's presence, even had he awoken and caught the kid in the act, the boy would probably have threatened to scream 'rape' or claim that Sam had 'propositioned' him and 'I need the money for my poor sick mama but I couldn't go through with it, officer, cue waterworks and woebegone expression'.

Dean made a somehow recognisably wry sound as he followed Sam's thought processes.

"Yeah," Sam snorted derisorily. "I know. Ironic, we probably saved the kid's life."

Dean nodded agreement as Sam got back under the covers again, both brothers thinking along similar lines. Even without all the supernatural and paranormal evils that the brothers fought and killed daily, America was still way overpopulated with human evils such as paedophiles, rapists, drug dealers and random psychopaths scattered across the continent like parmesan cheese shaken out with a heavy hand.

The sort of men who typically frequented these low-end motels and budget hotels were not as a class acclaimed for their personal decency or high moral character. Sam doubted the kid would _ever_ commit any crime again, which was all to the good. Sooner or later he would have broken into the wrong room, the room that had been taken by a serial rapist or serial killer travelling across country, and would have paid with his virtue and/or his life for his mistake. The boy still also looked young enough to attract some with paedophilic tendencies, and Sam had no doubt the kid would have had no idea what to do if one of his marks called his 'I'll scream rape' bluff.

Lying back down again, Sam yawned and unselfconsciously curled up next to Dean's warmth, dropping off back to sleep within minutes.

_Continued in Chapter 20…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

Author's Note:Thanks to all the people including K. Hanna Korossy and Joou Himeko Dah for letting me know the stories I was after. In case you were wondering:

Sanctuary by Cheryl W

Leaving Normal by LCFC

Ashes to Asses by Livengoo


	20. Chapter 20

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 20**

The disturbance made him sleep more deeply than usual; he briefly surfaced unhappily from delicious warmth when a stray ray of morning sunlight sneaked past the curtain into his face.

Sam blearily peered into the amused eyes of the tolerant panther and mumbled, "'nu'fiv'minu…" before rubbing his cheek into the living silk and dozing off again unknowing and uncaring that he was wrapped around the leopard as tightly as the sleeping Lucy Sullivan had been.

Dean, however, remained still and patient, even when Sam's foot pressed on his tail. The panther's eyes were a sombre mystery as it moved its head to gently rub its own cheek against Sam's hair, its eyes flicking to the bedside clock LED, which read nearly 8:30a.m – an unprecedented hour for Sam to still be laid on a mattress. Over the past few days, Sam, the perpetual insomniac, pale-faced being of haunted dreams and painful visions, had slept like a log; cuddling Dean like a teddy bear he had dropped off into peaceful, undisturbed slumber for solid hour upon hour. The panther's eyes remained enigmatic as it contemplated this fact.

It was nearly fifteen after ten when Sam awoke properly and sat up, squinting at the clock. "Huh…Sorry, man, I must have been more wiped than I realised."

Dean gave a massive yawn of his own that clearly indicated his lack of concern and urgency.

Sam washed up quickly but without rushing. They were still on schedule and there was no need to panic. Besides which, this was the most dangerous part of the trip and he wasn't going to go tearing along in the Impala no matter how behind they got. He came out of the bathroom, but any hope Dean might not have been following their progress that closely was dashed as the panther sat alertly on the bed, having pawed out the maps from Sam's holdall.

Accepting the inevitable Sam opened up the maps, wondering as he did so just what Dean saw – or rather how he saw it – as a leopard. For this leg of the journey, they were going to have to use a couple of main highways and a Freeway, though the Interstate they could avoid until a bit further on. As it happened, the Interstate was something that didn't worry them overmuch.

From a distance, such as when Sam had observed him on the passenger seat from the mom 'n' pop store, Dean superficially resembled just a rather large Rottweiler type dog, particularly if he had his head down and his tail was out of sight. At the speed cars travelled on main roads, hopefully other drivers would register nothing more than 'man with big dog' as they whizzed past. Sam was more worried about being pulled over by a patrol car or state trooper for 'driving a cool car whilst being young' on the main routes than some passing motorist glancing at him on the way past and realising he had a panther a foot away.

"I can go via the back roads if I turn off here," Sam offered, tracing the routes with his finger so Dean could see.

The panther shook his head from side to side slowly but firmly; having followed the discussion Sam had had with Sullivan intently. That particular section was in poor repair and would add unnecessary hours and miles to the journey, at least an extra day if not more, that assuming Sam did not get lost in the maze of largely uncharted side roads – as the saying went, ' a short-cut is the longest distance between two points.'

The last thing they needed was for the Impala to run out of gas, break down or suffer a tyre blow-out in the middle of nowhere. After the Bender family, rural communities were viewed with great suspicion by the brothers, who in the aftermath had found it hard to believe that _nobody_ in the far-from-bustling non-metropolis of Hibbing, Minnesota had ever noticed that the Benders were the _wrong_ kind of odd. How many people had died unnecessarily because people had put 'but they're locals' loyalty above what they suspected was happening?

Not really having expected Dean to agree to the back roads anyway, Sam checked out of the motel and made sure that the Impala's exterior was impeccable, and that the glove box was orderly with both sets of business cards, his ID, and exotic animal licence to hand, before they set off.

At first they made good time and Sam unclenched slightly, but as Sam drove along, the traffic began to imperceptibly slow. Dean who had been watching through the windshield lay down on the seat as their speed dropped to the extent that he was distinguishable from a dog to even a casual glance. The traffic moved along with one lane moving and then stopping and then another moving and stopping so cars were constantly passing and then dropping behind each other either side.

On Sam's right was a large guy in a motor-home who never so much as glanced down at him or even moved save to shove potato chips into his mouth from a pack on the dashboard, and on his left was a family in a station wagon – dad was driving, mom was snapping at the three rug rats and Labrador-type hyperactive mutt in the back. Sam saw a white line down dad's neck and grinned as he realised the father's serene calm came from the fact he had somehow secreted a portable CD Player or iPod on his person and probably couldn't hear his wife or kids. He was unable to prevent a soft chuckle and Dean sat up as Sam told him where to look.

The traffic moved on again and both 'neighbours' were left behind for a while. Sam heard/felt a faint vibration and the familiar boom-boom of too much bass approached in the right hand lane. A large, luxury sedan slowly pulled alongside, the tinted windows down so everyone could 'enjoy' the incomprehensible babble of whichever rapper was on the car's CD player. There were four men in the car; all black, all wearing gang/rap attire of baseball caps, leather coats and baggy 'camouflage' clothing plus several pounds worth of gold necklaces and rings. Sam doubted if the driver, who looked to the oldest, was even yet his own age of 22 and he knew without doubt the four gang-bangers probably carried as much if not more firepower than he and Dean had in the Impala.

All had blank, dead eyes as they flicked empty glances from expressionless faces over the classic Impala; they would kill a man for a cell phone or $20 with no discernible change in demeanour. Their lives were short and brutal and assuming they did not grow old on Death Row, a year from now most or all would have bled out on some filthy sidewalk in a shootout with other drug gangsters or the cops and it was doubtful any of them would live to be twenty-three.

As part of his Degree course Sam's junior year had consisted of several courses around 'Amerindian History & Rights' and 'Black American Islamic Radicalism and Urban Ghettoism'. Gunshot wounds were the leading cause of death amongst urban black men aged 15-30; the average age at death of a young, urban black man was 23 years, dropping as low as 19 in some American cities and managing to reach the heady pinnacle of 25, a year younger than Dean, in others. These were truly the living dead; Sam knew they knew it, and had long since ceased to care.

The traffic trundled to a standstill and Sam groaned as he looked up ahead, relaying to Dean; a group of road construction workers were clearly having some sort of serious dispute with what appeared to be municipal officials – hard hats and clipboard wavers faced off against each other. It appeared the two sides were more interested in aggravating the opposing contingent than getting the traffic moving again.

On his right the gang bangers sat motionless with the thudding beat polluting the air waves and on his left an impeccably-dressed little old lady who could barely see over the wheel pulled up in some sort of 1950s ocean liner that veered perilously close to taking off his driver's side-mirror. She too had the driver's window down and smelled overpoweringly of mothballs, way too much lavender and peppermints; finally the coy sun waved away the clouds and began to bake the cars that had been enjoying the cooling cloud cover. Ahead and behind, people began to open car doors to let in air or get out to stretch legs with the resigned expressions of those who know they are going nowhere fast.

About ten minutes later, Dean, who had been watching the antics of the arguing parties whilst Sam kept a weather eye on the gang bangers, moved and began to paw at the passenger door, clicking it open.

"Dean? What…Where are you going?" Sam straightened up as the cat just sort of flowed beneath the gap, and the driver gang banger turned an uninterested gaze towards Sam as the passenger door, apparently, clicked open of its own accord from his perspective as he did not look down into the gap between the cars.

He did look _up_ as a large black leopard suddenly bounded up onto the hood of the gang bangers' car. Sam hastened to get out of the Impala as the gang bangers went rigid to a man with the classic, 'we are not seeing what we are seeing' expressions. What on Earth did Dean think he was doing?

Sam cringed as the eerie scream of a hunting leopard echoed far, far away from its native plains of Africa. The effect was identical, however, on humans with ancient instincts that suddenly sprang to life and began yelling urgent warnings about sabre-toothed death in _way_ too close proximity. As if some celestial finger had hit a MUTE button, instant cessation of noise bar the engines of motor vehicles sliced across the traffic. In a car up ahead Sam saw out of his peripheral vision that even a bawling baby had stopped mid-squawk. Like one of those zombie horror movies, every head swivelled to orient on the Impala. Oh well, why not…?

His voice carrying effortlessly in the dead silence, Sam called out to the construction workers, "Excuse me? I'm sure you've got some legitimate problems to address, and I don't want to be rude, but my pet cat is getting hungry…and when he's hungry, he's cranky…" allowing the words to hang in the air for a heartbeat of time, Sam added, "I'd really appreciate it if you could just open one lane so we could get through…Oh, and if anyone has any food on them, I suggest you either get back in your cars and wind up your windows or leave the vicinity…now."

Dean opened his mouth in a 'yawn' that displayed his impressive teeth and there was a concert of whirring and clunking as people hit the button to raise the windows or scrambled back into vehicles with all possible speed. Up ahead, the construction workers were grabbing work tools and implements with almost frenzied enthusiasm and the clipboard contingent were scurrying to the safety of cars with the speed of people carrying chocolate and cake and other animal-attracting goodies.

Lightly Dean dropped back down from the hood of the car and with an apologetic smile to the gang bangers; Sam held the passenger door open for him and shut it behind him. Acutely aware he was the cynosure of all eyes Sam went round the driver's side and got back in, restarting the Impala and sitting in frozen silence for about five minutes until his line of traffic started moving.

Within ten minutes the workers had got two lanes open and moving and Sam raised his hand in salute as he went past, moving into the near lane and aware of the cars that slowly drove past with faces plastered to the windows gawping at the sight of the man driving a car with a full-grown leopard sat inches from him. Dean shamelessly played to his audience as he sat upright on the passenger side, frequently 'yawning' to show off his teeth.

Able to pick up some speed again, Sam was finally able to leave most of the traffic behind, but he groaned aloud at the thought of that peculiar osmosis by which rumour and gossip travelled amongst humans.

"What were you _thinking_?" he chided Dean as the leopard finally lay down on the seat again – not that it would do much good now. "The whole point of this journey was to be inconspicuous."

Dean gave a shrug accompanied by a growl, which Sam understood the gist off if not the exact words. Trouble was, Dean had a point; the longer the traffic jam had gone on, the more chance there would have been of someone noticing, '_hey that guy's got a leopard sat next to him!_' or more unpleasantly, the hot, bored, soul-dead gang bangers deciding they liked the Impala enough follow it to a more secluded strip of road and then burn a clip into the skinny white dude and take it for themselves.

If the car had just been a modern, featureless, churned out by the million in Taiwan sedan it might not have been too bad, but Sam could practically see that cosmic grapevine in the air: _yeah, a classic, man…I'm telling you…no the car and the cat were black…Mabel/Mavis/Doris/Betty, I swear you wouldn't believe…Saw it? Dude I swear I was a foot away from it…It was awesome, man, this jet-black cool car from the '60s – Dunno, some goofy white kid driving – and then, out of the passenger door, this black panther just…_and so forth and so on. A classic, fairly uncommon 1967 Chevrolet Impala driven by a dorky white kid with a black panther sat next to him – how hard to spot was _that_?

"Still…it was kinda funny," conceded Sam. "Did you see their _faces_?"

Dean lolled his tongue out at him in a 'laugh' and Sam found himself chuckling as well.

"Screw it," Sam decided, "There's no point driving to California in a constant panic attack. Whatever happens, we'll deal…You hungry?"

Enthusiastic affirmative nodding.

_Continued in Chapter 21…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

**Author's Note:** some readers of both _I Thought I Saw _and _Net Knots_ have asked me to write more in the "Net Knots" universe. I do have a follow-up story (though not exactly a sequel) in that universe in the works, called _Polterguise_.


	21. Chapter 21

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 21**

Sam pulled off when he spotted a diner sign and found the parking lot had several cars in situ but the place wasn't heaving with people. There were several picnic type table set out in the sun away from the main diner. Sam pulled into the most discreet parking bay he could and got out, holding the door so Dean could flow past him, cat holding its drinking bowl in its mouth.

"Wait by one of the tables, I'll bring it out," he instructed.

Going into the diner, Sam grabbed a large tray and joined the line; glancing out of the plate glass windows he saw nothing for a moment and than a large feline shadow vaguely cast on a wall between the Impala and the car next to it. He relaxed slightly as Dean had the sense to remain hidden until having no choice. Sam piled two large plates with juicy, sauced-slathered ribs and creamed potatoes and purchased four large flat blacks and a large latte for himself and paid. He was almost out before he realised his personal latte lunch plot would be rumbled by Dean if he went out without any cutlery for himself, so had to swing back round and grab a knife and fork and napkins for props.

Carefully Sam carried the heavy tray outside but nearly lost it as he was jostled abruptly. The best sited picnic table had just come free as a family placed their garbage in the trash and left, and without so much as a glance at Sam whom he'd just shouldered aside, a grossly obese man in a white golfing shirt and plaid shorts – a truly hideous combination – waddled past straight for it, bearing a tray piled high with enough food to feed a family of ten for a week.

Any hope Dean had not seen the incident died when a large, feline shape suddenly bounded up onto the table top and sprawled full length along it. The fat man came to a dead halt and Sam carefully side-stepped the obstacle, biting his lip to stop from laughing as he took in the man's face on the way past – his podgy eyes bugged out of their sockets and his lower jaw had sunk deep into his fifteen chins. As Sam placed his tray on the table top near Dean, the panther turned and focussed its attention straight on the fat dude, giving a massive 'yawn'.

Sam flinched at the crash from behind him and turned to glimpse the man's starkly terrified face before the man managed to spin round fast for someone of that size and almost run off, the twin barrage balloons that formed his gargantuan butt bouncing like a Baywatch Babe's boobs in the opening credits above short, bloated little legs as he reached a motorhome and yanked frantically at the door before squeezing his grossly swollen form inside and slamming the door, driving off in a series of jerky little hops.

Well, why not? The dude's tray had hit the blacktop with a crash but apart from a few casualties at the peripherals, at least $30 worth of hot, fresh food was unharmed.

Heaving the tray up with no little effort, Sam took it back to the table and gave his best 'cute' smile at a couple who were sat at the nearest table, their eyes fixed on the panther, frozen with baguettes partway to their mouths.

"Shame to waste it," he shrugged, placing the tray so Dean could stretch out on the table top and tuck in.

The breakfast bowl was on the seat so he placed it next to the tray as Dean ate the free lunch and poured the flat blacks in. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the couple, as if shaking off a hypnotic trance, clearly eating their own food on autopilot, their fascinated gazes never leaving the leopard, and Sam was pleased that Lucy Sullivan had taken the time to make Dean feel at ease having to eat in his current state.

Not that Dean ate like a real leopard with tearing and gulping abandon. He would curl that sandpaper tongue round a choice morsel whip it back into his mouth similarly to a chameleon's tongue or gently close his front teeth around a portion and almost daintily nibble at it. Nevertheless, in less than a minute, the tray was empty and the plate licked to glistening pottery, while Dean lapped up some of the coffee with a purr of pleasure as Sam pushed the other tray towards him.

"This is all the coffee you're getting," he mock-scolded, "After today you're way too hyper as it is."

The panther curled a lip and with one powerful crack that split the bone, had half the ribs into its mouth. Dean tilted his on one side thoughtfully after a minute or so and then turned his head towards the trashcan, narrowing his eyes. Abruptly a rib bone shot from his mouth to land dead centre inside the trashcan.

Sam laughed, "Cool!"

Shifting position slightly, Dean concentrated and in rapid succession fired now bare rib fragments as if from a peashooter with perfect accuracy into the trashcan.

"Nothing but net!" Sam congratulated him, raising his latte in toast as Dean ate the rest of his ribs and then fired the remains into the trash.

As Dean polished off the potatoes, Sam gave a theatrical sigh and pushed his own ribs over. "Go on, you know you want to."

It almost worked; Dean's head dipped before the cat froze suddenly and moved back from the meat, its eyes flickering round the table to register it had eaten all the fat man's food and its own, while Sam had ingested half a cup of latte coffee. The tray was pushed back towards him with a little growl.

"I'm okay with the potatoes." Sam refused, pushing the tray back.

The growl edged to a snarl and was a clear command.

"Look, how about we split the ribs, half and half?" Sam offered, but didn't drop his gaze from Dean's, indicating he wasn't going to be bullied into eating the food.

A single reluctant nod so Sam took a knife and separated the ribs down the middle; Dean ate his but merely dropped the bones onto his plate, monitoring remorselessly as Sam ate the ribs; they were quite good but the sauce sat heavily on Sam's stomach and past experience of ignoring that 'borderline discomfort' warning sensation, only to be on his knees before the toilet vomiting back up semi-digested food an hour later, made him quit after only a third of the potatoes.

Dean growled agitatedly as Sam laid down his fork.

"It's okay," Sam laid his hand on Dean's neck and stroked soothingly, "I've never been the bottomless pit you are, man!" but the quip fell flat as Dean laid a paw on his arm in clear concern. "Sometimes I don't have that much of an appetite," Sam admitted, "but Dean – " he caught the panther's chin and looked directly in Dean's eyes, "I promise, this…this is the most I've eaten at one time in weeks. I am okay, I swear."

Slow nod, though Sam had no doubt that the subject of Sam's inability to eat much would be revisited when Dean was restored to human form. Forget panther, Dean should have turned into a giant mother hen.

_Continued in Chapter 22…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	22. Chapter 22

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 22**

Dean enjoyed the warmth of the sun while Sam slowly sipped his half-remaining cup of coffee. He was fairly confident the potatoes and sauce would "settle", but knew too well that if he gulped the coffee down like a man in a desert finding an oasis he would in short order bring the whole lot back up and then he would _never_ get Dean to quit the agitating. If his brother had been in human form, Sam might have stood a chance at hiding any barf-fest (he'd done it before, after all) but it took strong measures to fool a human nose so no way could a panther's vastly superior olfactory abilities miss the acidic, very distinctive odour of vomit.

Still, there wasn't any problem. At first, Dean tensed and ceased the waft of his tail at flies as a couple of people went past, but after ten minutes of over a score individuals going past – some of whom even gave them a cursory glance – without batting an eyelash at the sight of a large _panther_ on the table, Dean stopped bothering. In fact, Dean's ears twitched back and forth and he gave a snorting huff that Sam instantly recognised as "Dean" for '_how stupid are these people?_'

"Come on, man," Sam commented, "you know how well people rationalise and deny what's happened – even in front of their faces. Becky Warren saw that shape shifter up close and personal yet when she tried to hint I should go back to school it was obvious she was already well on the way to convincing herself she'd exaggerated the whole deal because of 'extreme psychological stress' or whatever the current psycho-claptrap jargon is. We of all people should not be surprised that everybody sees you but nobody _sees_ you."

Dean made another huffing breath sound that again Sam accurately translated as being along the lines of, '_Yeah I know, but come on – there's oblivious and then there's major shallow-end-of-the-gene-pool_'

Sam shrugged and gestured with his coffee cup at where a couple of cars had pulled up – a family sedan and an older, big estate type car. A family piled out of the sedan, parents and three kids aged from mid-teens down to about second grade who were squabbling loudly over some sort of iPod/handheld PC/techno-gizmo as their parents chivvied them towards the diner without ever once looking at anything going around them. From the estate came a tall, thin woman also with three kids who gave the scene a cursory glance that passed over Dean without registering him in the slightest as they too began to move towards the diner.

"See," Sam informed his brother, "It's no coincidence that all the things we hunt – the folklore, the urban legends, the scary fairy stories – all pre-date the invention of what Roald Dahl called the 'idiot box in the corner'. Twenty years ago kids lost the ability to do mental math when they were given cute little gizmos called calculators that did it for them. Nowadays SatNav is doing a similar deskilling process. Twenty years from now no American outside maybe a soldier will be able to actually use a _map_ because everyone will depend on the syrupy-voiced female doling out orders from the dash –"

Dean's growl didn't need any translation: _not in my baby._

"Basically, television was 'patient zero' of a series of well, 'techno-viruses', that turn human brains into the neurological equivalent of couch potatoes," Sam told his brother. "TV was invented during our great-great-grandparents era, so this is the fourth generation of the human imagination being fat and flabby. None of these people really 'see' you because they've never exercised their sense of wonder, their ability to fantasise –"

A growl that somehow managed to be lascivious emanated from deep in the furry ebony chest.

"Not _that_ kind of fantasising," Sam chided, "you know what I mean. Kids today don't turn up the pages of the Brothers Grimm because, like some guy not a million miles away once said, they're "'still waiting for the movie on that one.'""

Having anticipated the tail swish, Sam easily evaded it by leaning back slightly, but there was no serious intent to the move, since Dean gave a growl of agreement.

"Y'know, what's _really_ ironic?" Sam commented with faint wistfulness. "If TV had been invented six thousand years ago, there wouldn't _be_ any demon hunters…at least not that may."

Dean gave a dubious growl.

"I'm serious, think about it," urged Sam. "Remember after Mordecai the Tulpa? I wondered how many of the things that we hunted only came to exist because enough people believed in them…or people believed in them enough. If TV had been invented thousands of years ago, human imagination would have become as vestigial as an ostrich's wings. Look what's happening now after just a few generations of it sitting on mental couch with a beer and a Big Mac. Nobody would have had the _ability_ to dream up something a like a wendigo or a cupacubra, a werewolf or a woman in white. Spring-Heeled Jacks, goblins, poltergeists, shtrigas, you name it –"

"_AGAA-Doooby!"_

Sam jerked his head around –

Then down just as the small toddler grabbed the tip of Dean's tail and gleefully yanked like he was pulling a bell-rope.

With one flick, Dean pulled his tail free – whacking the toddler in the nose - and twisted his extraordinarily flexible feline head around to fix on this interloper. It was a little boy – certainly no more than two, probably no more than eighteen months, still in the "wobbly legs 'cause walking upright is an novelty" period. He had thick ringlets of Hershey's chocolate brown hair, big brown eyes with ridiculously long lashes and dimples you could park a car in. He also had a slight drool issue.

However, he had decided to find the tail in the face funny rather than traumatic, and his little podgy hands made another grab for Dean's tail. Again, Dean moved the appendage out of the way, but then flicked back and forth under the toddler's nose, using the fur at the tip of his tail to tickle the boy's face. Wrinkling his nose and hunching up his shoulders in an attitude of delight, the little boy made ecstatic grabs at Dean's tail, almost bouncing in glee as Dean obligingly continued the game.

_Oh yeah, heart of stone, no chick-flick moments, just a lean, mean killing machine._ Sam struggled to keep his face straight. Dean Winchester's secret was out – he was _nice_…hell, forget nice, he was a great big fabric softener mushy-mushy…oh the hours of fun Sam was going to have tormenting Dean about this…

_Continued in Chapter 23…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

The line, "…I'm still waiting for the movie on that one,'" was spoken by Dean (Jensen) in the Season 1 episode **_Provenance_**, in reference to the Dan Brown book/Tom Hanks movie _The Da Vinci Code_.

NB - The basic premise of the novel, a politico-religious thriller, was that the Catholic Church had conspired for centuries to hide the true "holy grail", not the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper, but the "last scion" or last remaining of Christ's supposed descendents from his marriage to Mary Magdalene.

As novels go, it was adequately enjoyable hokum if you've got nothing better to read on a wet afternoon, and the movie (Tom Hanks is always watchable) sexed up the novel profitably enough to make Dan Brown very happy and help him cash in on the controversy by releasing several previous/hastily cobbled together books that hadn't sold as well the first time around.

In case you were wondering, there has never been any "holy grail" – Jesus and his 12 apostles _hired_ an upstairs room to celebrate the Jewish Passover1 the famed "Last Supper" and left shortly after eating that meal. By the time Jesus Christ was arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane some hours later, the landlord's servants would have cleaned the room and washed all the crockery – including all the bog-standard wooden cups Jesus and his apostles used. The "Holy Grail" was invented several hundred years later based on pre-Christian myths such as the Golden Fleece, Fountain of Eternal Youth and the Sovereign Specific (a plant/potion that could cure all ills and heal all wounds).

1 The Passover celebrated the incident in Egypt in 1513 B.C., when God's Angel of Death "passed over" the land, but ignored or also "passed over" the houses of those who had obeyed the command to splash lamb's blood on the doorposts and lintels of their houses (mostly Israelites, but a "mixed crowd" of non-Israelite slaves, servants and even considerable Egyptians also heeded the command). Everywhere else the "firstborn of man and beast" died.

Also, the real Jesus Christ died a childless bachelor aged 33½ years of age. Mary Magdalene was a rich female disciple of Jesus Christ's – at the time of his death he had around 130 disciples. The legends of her being a prostitute, and the wife of Christ, and that the "effeminate" John2 in some paintings is really Mary Magdalene, were again invented from non-Christian religious myths over 200 years after the fact. Jesus was, however, an _uncle_ and a _cousin_, as he had four brothers (James, Judas, Simon, Joseph) and three sisters, all of whom had families. His apostles James and John, the sons of Zebedee & Salome, were also his maternal first cousins, Salome being Mary's sister; the apostle James ('the Less') was his adoptive paternal cousin, being the son of Alphaeus Clopas, brother of Jesus' adoptive father Joseph. James (the less because he was either shorter or much older than the other apostles) traditionally is the father of the apostle Thaddeus Judas, therefore also a cousin. John the Baptist was Jesus' second cousin (John's mother Elizabeth and Mary were first cousins through their mothers, who were sisters).

2 Most "Westernised" images and paintings of Christ and/or the apostles portray a skinny, pallid, "saintly" looking, blue-eyed dishwater-blond. Again, none of this is historically accurate. Jesus lived in a hot, sunny country; he was a carpenter/builder in a time without power tools and where most people had to travel on foot. In short, the real Jesus Christ (and his apostles) had black/brown hair, brown eyes, a great tan, perfect pecs, a tautly honed gluteus maximus, six-pack abs well into their thirties, and physiques generally the right side of "yummy"…Think Jensen Ackles about five years older than he is now with a full beard, no hair gel and possibly another inch of height and you're pretty close to what the real Jesus Christ probably looked like.


	23. Chapter 23

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 22**

Sam wondered if he could surreptitiously ease his 3G cell out of his jacket pocket without Dean realising he was about suffer a – well, several – "Kodak moments". He doubted it…but after all, Dean couldn't stop him forcibly without terrifying the tot, and once they were taken, it was all over bar the shouting and however many times Sam kept calling the photo files up on his phone (after backing them up so Dean couldn't delete them all).

For a moment he savoured the concessions he could wring out of Dean, but just as his fingers closed around his cell phone, Sam was interrupted by a new, but also young voice.

"What's his name?"

Once again Sam looked around and down, but less down than before. Two older children had approached the table and their eyes were fixed on the panther like Dean did a pretty diner waitress. The speaker was the elder child, the girl. Borderline pubescent, Sam estimated her age at about twelve or thirteen. Skinny, with a narrow, oval face whose freckled nose and stubborn chin were just too pointed to enable the kinder description of 'elfin'. Unusually she was a brown-eyed blonde, with that fine flyaway hair characteristic of some blondes clinging to her cheeks.

"He's called Dean." Sam answered truthfully and she nodded solemnly.

The new boy, roughly about nine years old, was an older version of the toddler, down to the crater-like dimples, except that his eyes were storm-cloud grey as opposed to brown. He looked from Sam to 'his' panther with an expression of raw envy. "How did you get a pet _panther_?"

"He's _not_ a pet," Sam corrected with perhaps just a tad too much firmness as they blinked at him, but hey, they weren't the ones who would have to spend the next few days suffering the revenge of a not-pink panther in a major snit because Sam had dared to designate him a p-e-t. "Just treat him with respect and you'll be okay."

The boy nodded cursorily, "Can we stroke him?"

Dean's ear gave a flick of consent even as he continued playing catch-my-tail with the toddler so Sam nodded and moved to the edge of the bench to allow them room, "Sure."

Boldly the boy stepped up and began running his hand down Dean's flank. More hesitantly, the girl moved to Dean's head and, watching the big cat's face, reached out a finely boned hand and gently rubbed the top of Dean's skull. She froze when Dean instantly began to crank out deep purrs but, with a huge Cheshire-cat whomping grin, continued eagerly as Dean purred louder the more she rubbed his big furry head and ears. _Oh yeah, Mr I'm just the muscle_, Sam watched the byplay; Dean might not have a bit of sheepskin or a high school diploma, but what he knew about _applied_ psychology beat any Harvard professor hands down.

"I'm Sam…?" he tried.

"I'm Lacy, these are my brothers, Daryl," she nodded at the older boy, then the toddler, "and Toby."

Now the three were in the same place, Sam recalled, "You came with your mom in that big old car."

"Yeah, we're on a road-trip, going to my grandparents in Cali." She obligingly informed.

"Yeah, s'where I'm headed to…Bakersfield." Sam replied, "So you're on a road-trip vacation too –"

She shook her head. "We're moving there to live. Our mom's divorcing our dad and it was getting heavy, so…" she gave a pale imitation of a smile.

Sam knew Dean had also picked up on her phraseology: not _my parents are divorcing _but _mom is divorcing dad_. Ouch, he could scent the acrimony from here.

"I'm sorry," Sam knew it was inadequate, but "divorce" was an alien concept to him. He had never ever doubted how deeply he was loved, certainly not by Dean and not by their dad, for all the humdinger shouting matches he and John got into.

"Our dad's a loser!" snarled Daryl with vicious abruptness and a furious glare at Lacy that 'bounced off' of her with the ease of what was regrettably obvious familiarity.

As the boy turned back to his obsessive stroking of Dean's back, Sam felt a block of ice materialise solidly in his gut. The last time he'd seen that mixture of searing anguish and vicious hatred it had been on Max Miller's face just before the guy had shoved Sam in a closet and tried to murder his brother. Dean's stillness told his own tale, and Sam knew that child or no child, Dean would kill anything that was a threat to Sam. He needed to bring down the emotional temperature _now_.

Before he could speak, Lacy did, speaking more softly to Sam as she explained, "Our dad's company when bust when mom was seven months gone with Toby."

"That must have been incredibly tough for you all…" Sam sympathised, feeling for her too-thin face and looking into her eyes, seeing that they were far older than her body was.

"It was okay at first," she gave one of those "brave, faux cheerful smiles" that no child should ever have to pin on its face, "he got another job straight away, but it was less money and only temporary and once Toby was here…"

"Your dad couldn't find work?" Sam encouraged; maybe if the girl expressed a few feelings she would feel more able to be a _girl_ instead of a 40-year-old trapped in a preadolescent form.

Sam could recognise someone who'd never had the opportunity to _be_ a child blindfold, because he had a living example right next to him. Dean had been an adult by the age of ten and it had showed in everything he did. Sam had witnessed how even when Dean was that age some adults had caught themselves talking to Dean as if he were the parent rather than John, and their worry when Dean's responses had demonstrated that his 'adulthood' wasn't fake.

How many times at the few schools they had attended had teachers come up to them in the schoolyard or obviously watched the brothers with 'concern' because Dean treated 'Sammy' like his son – his responsibility – and Sammy had reciprocated by giving Dean the adoration and devotion that should have been directed at his father? 'Emotionally over-attached', 'seems to have a father-fixation on the older boy rather than the biological male parent', 'clear familial homeostatic dysfunction', had been just a few phrases that had cropped up in educational psychology reports, but by that time John had usually tired of the bureaucratic BS and moved them on.

Lowering her voice even further, Lacy informed, "It wasn't an Enron deal with the directors still having their money in offshore banks. Even the Board of Directors lost their shirts. Turns out one of the accountants my dad's company used was banging some Malibu Barbie and skipped the country with her to a NET-US."

Sam felt his heart twist with pity for her as Lacy's words, tone and face were decades older than she was – she wasn't just parroting the vitriol of bankrupted adults or like a toddler who innocently said an expletive without understanding what it signified; she knew the meaning of the words she was saying. "A 'net-us'?" he asked.

"No Extradition Treaty with United States," she clarified. "Several other companies with that accountant went to the wall too. There were dozens of guys chasing the same jobs and there was always somebody younger and not burdened down with…weight." Once again her eyes flickered to her brothers and Sam nodded to show he understood the word as a euphemism for 'wife and children'.

From an employer's perspective it made perfect sense – if you were going to have an employee on your company health insurance, an eager-beaver twenty-something with no other emotional commitments who could be gulled into busting a gut for the company because he had no other responsibilities was a far more attractive choice than a thirty-something husband and father who only viewed 'work' as a means for caring for his family and accordingly put it that far down on his priority list.

"Dad started getting angry, then he got depressed and then…" for the first time moisture shimmered in Lacy's eyes and she _looked _like a little girl, "…he just gave up. Mom got two jobs, then three, and dad said he'd be a house-husband…except _that_ seemed to consist of sitting in front of the TV all day in his housecoat1 and shorts drinking with Jim, Jack or Johnny. It got old, fast."2

"A little more tequila, a little less demon-hunting…" Sam whispered the words to himself, and felt the ice-block expand as he realised that Lacy's father had probably begun to copy the late and unlamented Mr Miller's approach to parenting – fists first. He felt a deep inchoate rage surge within at the thought of some self-pitying drunk lashing out at these small, defenceless children.

"What?"

Sam blinked as he realised he'd said the words loud enough to hear. "Uh…nothing…er, is that your mom?"

Next to him Dean gave a snort at the clumsy redirect but it was indeed a tall, thin woman who unusually was a brown-eyed blonde leaving the diner with several carry-out bags and looking around her for three short people.

She approached Sam with that parental expression of embarrassed apology, a look that disappeared like snow on a hot stove as her eyes finally registered just what the animal her children were cuddling actually _was_.

_Continued in Chapter 24…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart

1 In Britain, this is known as either a housecoat or a dressing gown (the descriptions are unisex). It is the item you put over your nightdress/pyjamas/shorts when you don't want to get dressed properly but don't want to answer the door in skimpy/grotty nightwear that will traumatise your caller/neighbours/the mailman/passers by. It is usually made of terry-towelling, cotton, nylon, silk/lace, depending on your sex and/or personal preferences, either with button, zip or a belt tie front. John Winchester was wearing one in the pilot when he dashes into Sam's nursery and looks up to see Mary on the ceiling.

2 Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker – are all American brands of "whisky". Since the only true whisky comes from the Scotland and Ireland, these may also be referred to as "bourbon", "scotch" etc.


	24. Chapter 24

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 24**

Before Sam could act to divert the freak-out, something else did – a loud, exuberant squeal of unalloyed delight.

Fortuitously, little Toby had managed (or been allowed) to grab Dean's tail and was now clutching the appendage in his chubby mitts and rubbing it across his cheeks like a facecloth with delighted giggles. Mom looked at the little boy with such astonishment that Sam got the distinct feeling it had been a long time since anything had got any expression of pleasure from these kids.

Smoothly he segued into the opening of her hesitation, "I'm sorry, we must be holding you up."

She shook her head automatically, clearly still struggling to accept that the animal she was seeing really was the animal she was seeing. "N-No, it's fine…after a while the driving really makes you stiffen up…Mr…"

"I'm Sam."

"Libby," she returned and absently handed out the two carry-out bags to Daryl and Lacy who reluctantly removed their hands from petting Dean to delve into the bags.

Sam felt his chest squeeze again, recognising the ploy of the parent pretending to have eaten already or not liking burgers or whatever. John had pulled that one on Dean when Sam was too young to need anything more than formula, but Dean had in turn pulled it on Sam – part of the reason Dean had such great skin tone was a childhood chugging gallons of water a day, water to trick an empty belly it was full. What little money Dean was able to scam/scavenge had all been spent on Sam. The number of times Dean would take Sam to diner for lunch but only have coffee himself and eating Sam's meagre leftovers; the number of nights Sam would watch as Dean's "dinner" consisted of a glass of boiled water that he dissolved the sachets of sugar he pocketed from diners into to give it some nutrition.

"Could I…?" Her fingers twitched.

"Sure, Dean likes his head stroked," Sam responded, before mentally kicking himself – the panther's eyes practically glowed emerald and Sam knew he was _never_ going to live down his unintentional double entendre.

Just like Lacy, she patted Dean's head tentatively but soon lost her nervousness as Dean purred. As well he might, since his position on the table top put his head on a level with the definitely adult Libby's lush bosom and a close-up view of her generally curvaceous form. _The soon-to-be-ex Mr Libby is an idiot…or blind…or both_.

"We're going to my parents in California…" she offered as she rubbed Dean's ears.

"Yes," Sam put in promptly in a 'knowing' tone designed to convey his awareness of their circumstances.

Not slow on the uptake, her eyes flickered towards Lacy with a mixture of reproof, resignation…and sorrow in them. Lacy having inhaled her burger, concentrated on stroking Dean's flank with a mulishly stubborn expression but didn't look up at either adult.

"It must be very difficult," Sam acknowledged, filling the awkward pause.

Libby gave him a weak smile. "It's had its moments…"

Now she was near and – thanks to Dean – not holding herself so rigidly, Sam could see that beyond the tension lines around her eyes and mouth, she was not that old; she was certainly no more than about six years past Dean's own age of 27, between about 32-34 he would estimate. With something close to astonishment, Sam realised that Libby wasn't much different to how his and Dean's own parents would have been – minus the divorce angst of course – back in 1980. Mary and John had been born in the same year, 1954; by the time John Winchester was 27, the age Dean was now, he was a married businessman and father of one boisterous toddler son.

Of course, as far as humans were concerned, adulthood was about far more than biological chronology. Marriage did not (unfortunately) magically imbue the participants with the emotional maturity, sensibleness and practicality needed to live in Reality instead of the Mills & Boon fantasy where the sink never need unblocking, your mother-in-law was never a problem and you never had to deal with a screaming, colic-distressed baby at 3:00am. But somehow the titles 'Mr' and 'Mrs' provided a sense of 'adultness' that few other things could imbue. For a similar reason, one of Sam's Stanford buddies had shortened his middle name of Richard to 'Ritchie' and gone by that because he was so fed up of his first Christian name, Ezra, causing people to expect a staid middle-ager or some old, grizzled Bible Belt hillbilly.

Now she was near, Sam could also see the faint dull yellow discolouration marks on her neck, partially hidden by her blouse collar, and similar greenish-yellow blobs on her forearms where her sleeve cuff rolled up. They looked suspiciously like finger indentations, as if a hand had grabbed her arm or squeezed her neck. Dean's panther eyes had gone from emerald fire to Antarctic ice and he was purring and giving Libby the full-on 'adorable' treatment as if to make up for not being there to beat her ex to a bloody-pulp when the bastard had sorely needed it – i.e., the moment he raised his hand against a woman.

Sam kept the small talk going for several minutes, inwardly pleased as Libby's body language became less fraught like her children's, before with obvious reluctance she and her children tore themselves away to do the restroom run and get back on the road. Unlike the usual toddler (even the best-behaved) reaction of tantrums and tears to being thwarted, Toby accepted the end of the game and his mother's refusal to take the big cat along with a surprising matter-of-factness. Saddening also, in its implication that the little boy was used to having his toys discarded or sold in a yard sale to eke out family finances.

Sam gave himself another five minutes and then cleared away the detritus into the trashcan. "I need to take a leak; then we'd better go. Sooner or later people are going to actually pay attention to what you really are and wackiness will ensue."

Dean obligingly eased off the table top towards the cover provided by the gaps between the parked vehicles as Sam headed to the restroom and took care of that necessity. As he washed his hands, Sam checked his face in the mirror, relaxing at the clear eyes looking back at him. Libby and her kids had distracted his digestion and thanks to his cautious eating, his stomach wasn't giving him any ominous signs that it intended to send his meal back up.

Drying his hands, he checked his clothing was in order and there were no embarrassing openings or water stains, lessons he'd learned the hard way, i.e., from the School of Dean. When he'd been eight he'd forgotten to do up his pants zipper and Dean had tormented him by telling him everyone had seen his 'winkle' - to Sam's absolute mortification, since of course back then he had tended to believe everything his big brother told him – and that the police would come and arrest him for _in-dee-cent supp-oh-zure_, as Dean had pronounced it, rolling out the words with relish. That had reduced a terrified Sam to tears and earned Dean the business end of John Winchester's hard hand to his butt.

When Sam had been an ultra self-conscious fourteen-year-old with ever-growing limbs that seemed to operate with minds of their own and no co-operative co-ordination, Dean had walked out of a diner restroom and 'warned' Sam that none of the washbasins bar the far end worked. Sam had again fallen for it, only for the faucet to spurt water so forcefully that it hit the crotch of Sam's pale-hued chinos and forced him to walk through the diner with a large, conspicuous dark stain around his groin that looked exactly like an 'unfortunate accident'. Dean, prudently, was nowhere to be found, having started walking home in the knowledge that by the time he arrived, Sam's homicidal fury would have been reduced to a stewing teenage sulk that, while it would annoyingly last for several days, wasn't the same as launching himself at his big brother in a feet-and-fists frenzy to do damage.

As he walked across the grass, Sam wondered again if he could sedate Dean and pull the hairdryer Fluffy Calendar Kittens thing on him. Dean was owed so much in payback…

Parenthood is not for every adult human, and in the modern 21st Century, those that in previous eras would have had to just put up with it as the price for sexual pleasure or remain celibate to avoid it, could now explore their sexual needs without the burden of having to reproduce where they didn't want to. But such distinctions did not in the slightest impinge on human DNA, that ancient book of drives and instincts encoded in every cell of the human genome. Amongst the many instructions written in that microscopic chemical 'ink' was an instinct in all adult humans to protect the young of the species, regardless of whether biologically their offspring or not.

Adult humans were, therefore, hardwired to recognise instantly the cry of a child in peril…

And across the parking lot there came the sudden, terrified scream of a child.

_Continued in Chapter 25…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	25. Chapter 25

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 25**

Libby stood rigid as if she had suddenly put down roots on the spot, with her arms down and held out slightly from her sides, palms down and fingers slightly spread. But peculiarly she was managing to lean her torso directly backwards as if buffeted by a strong gale, in defiance of the law of gravity which tended to state that an object leaning at that angle to the perpendicular must fall over, and also the law of biology which stated that a human spine could not arch _that _way.

The reason for these extraordinary accomplishments was obvious. Having stumbled out of a beat-up suburban, a large man was now standing directly in Libby's path only six feet in front of her, pointing a double-barrelled shotgun straight at her torso. It was an unhappily sure aim, given the palsied trembling of his legs, bloodshot pits of eyes, grossly overdone 'designer' shadow – more like thicket – on his chin and clothes that, if they had _not_ been slept in for several days, seriously needed to sue the launderette in question.

Not the ruddy glow of health, his face was instead suffused with an aubergine-tinged choleric red that bespoke a complete failure of "anger-management" techniques and some dedicated over-indulgence in booze, fast food and tobacco/opprobrious narcotic products. There was an almost greasy sheen to his features that indicated he was currently still the far side of well-oiled and his skin was stretched tight as if across a pimple or boil, indicating lack of elasticity from recent bloating rather than the healthy pink expanse of an always-plump individual.

Pressed up against her mother's back with her gamine face so white it was a bloodless putty-grey, Lacy was in turn trying to shield her brothers behind her with her arms pressing them in till her elbows, wrists and knuckles were white with the pressure. Daryl in turn was straining at the barrier of his sister's right arm, not yet old enough for the human male's inherently stronger musculature over the female to have any effect on his older sister's attempt to hide him from view.

But even as his eyes burned at the shotgun-wielding maniac with a hatred bordering on the psychotic he in turn ruthlessly held his toddler brother behind him using his form as a living shield. Little Toby, shaking so violently his tremors were clearly visible from Sam's distance, had buried his face in the small of his big brothers back and was clinging to that back, hunched up like a hibernating hedgehog in a tactic familiar most parents – for a terrified two-year-old seeking escape, the idea that if he couldn't see the monster, the monster couldn't see him, was almost a universal notion.

_Now_ Sam's stomach somersaulted, fortunately after his safely digested dinner had moved on to the intestinal part of the tour. There was a reason that the old 12-gauge double-barrelled remained a universal weapon of fear despite all the meaner, snazzier upstarts to grace Death's catwalk of carnage such as the AK47, MP5 'room broom' and so forth: the horrific damage it did. A d-b shotgun was like using an ICBM to swat a fly; at close range, before the shot could 'disperse', it did not kill so much as shred.

So if the scumbag pulled the trigger at only six feet the concentrated impact would literally punch through Libby's body like tissue paper, tear through Lacy with as little effort, sear through Daryl form like a laser and shred Toby's internal organs en route as the shot exited the toddler's back to finally hit the dirt that had the density to stop it in its tracks.

Sam sucked in a breath and slowly walked forward into the kill zone making sure he made no sudden movements that might attract attention and a panicky squeezing of the trigger – even if Ex-Mr-Libby (he could be nobody else) – swung the gun to aim at Sam and fired, the shotgun's peripheral blast would still catch Libby in it's lethal swathe; that was also what made shotguns so ugly – it was the collateral damage they did to innocent things and people on the fringes who in some cases weren't being aimed at or intended to be part of the casualties.

As he walked the hand-grip of the gun tucked into his waistband at the back of his pants rubbed against the bare skin of his lower back and when this was all over, Sam was going to agree wholeheartedly that Dean had been right and cheerfully allow his sibling to wallow in the 'big brother smugness'. Since Dean had been turned into the big cat, he had insisted that Sam carry a handgun at the small of his back as Dean customarily carried his favoured Glock-17. The panther had achieved this by lots of growling, yowling and finally sitting on Sam's chest snarling and otherwise refusing to let Sam leave the motel rooms until he showed that he was following the feline diktat. It meant that right now Sam had a weapon he could use to counter the threat of that shotgun if he could manoeuvre the circumstances correctly.

First, try and get that shotgun pointed somewhere else, even if 'else' was at Sam. "Please put the gun down!" he spoke clearly over the man's obscene rambling – the guy's mouth was an open sewer, spewing filth out.

"Butt boy out!" The garbled command and the slurred delivery of Ex- hell, Dean would have dubbed him EML already - was testimony to just how much 'firewater' he must have chugged down his gullet. Of all the drunk-drivers in all the world, why couldn't _this _one have been the guy who lurched off his driveway straight into a tree?

"I don't want Libby to be hurt."

Standard psychology said that naming the hostage turned him or her from an 'it' – an object – back into a person, i.e., theoretically more difficult for the bad guy to make himself kill. Sam realised it was a mistake as the man's eyes flared with drunken rage.

"Libby?" he mocked. "Is this your latest boy-whore, eh?"

Libby's expression was frozen, not with fear, Sam now saw as he was so close, but a profound contempt. Her eyes flickered momentarily with disgust and Sam realised that _she_ not he had just been insulted as his brain untangled the slurred tonal pitch and understood that EML had not said, 'Is this your latest boy-whore, eh?' but rather, 'Is this your latest boy, whore, eh?"

"Did he sire that last money-sucking whoreson brat of yours?" EML's tone got louder as the fury started to stoke, his face going even more towards aubergine purple rather than crimson-red.

_Please God, why not give the bastard cholesterol-induced coronary right now?_ Implored Sam momentarily but then it occurred to him that the guy's death spasm would probably cause his finger to pull the trigger inadvertently and _oh Christ, erm, strike that request please! Sorry, sorry to bother you and the blasphemy thing._ With an effort of will, Sam clamped down on his own rather hysteric mental processes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw pallid blobs floating and saw that they were the frightened faces of the other customers peering out at the tableau through the diner's windows.

At the far end the cashier that had served Sam an eternity ago now seemed to be suffering some sort of twitching spasm that made her arms flail and her head twist on one side, but then Sam's eyes decoded the image and he realised she was gabbling frantically into the mouth-piece of a wall-phone receiver. Calling the cops…

_Shit_. If the local reps of the thin blue line came haring into hearing range with sirens a-wailing whilst EML was _still _pointing that gun straight at Libby and the bastard panicked and pulled the trigger or thought what-the-hell and pulled the trigger… Sanity, never mind reason, clearly weren't in the building of what passed for EML's booze-drenched brain.

But Sam had one advantage – this dude had effectively committed suicide by threatening children in killing range of Dean Winchester. All Sam needed was a helpfully staged diversion, and he had that – it was big, furious and furry and if Sam knew his brother's MO as well as he thought he did, Dean would be throwing his metaphorical hat into the ring in 5…4…3…2…_so long sucker…_

Echoing and re-echoing across the parking lot, the bone-chilling scream of an enraged leopard reverberated, turning the blood to liquid ice and reducing every primordial human cell left in a person's body to quivering jelly.

_Continued in Chapter 26…_

© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart


	26. Chapter 26

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 25**

And it was perfection:

Even _knowing_ he was the one person in the world who need not fear, the hideous sound had Sam's nerve-endings shivering and EML with his wits drowned by drink had no chance. As Dean's literally inhuman scream of rage echoed, cacophonic, EML went poker-rigid with shock, his eyes bulging out of their sockets at the sight of the huge panther that was suddenly mere yards from him with blazing eyes and gaping, fang-filled maw – and somehow he managed to tangle himself up in his own ankles as he stumbled back a step in terror.

Sam watched in awestruck astonishment as, if pushed by an invisible angel, EML simply toppled over backwards like a felled tree as fear and alcohol combined to completely obliterate his reflexes; following the arc of his collapse, the shotgun tilted up, up, up and even though EML's fingers tightened spasmodically on the trigger, the deafening blast did no more harm than perforate an overhead cloud. In his own reflex action, Sam had the handgun swept out from his waistband and pointed in the classic police-officer's grip1 at a spot directly between the winded man's eyes.

Sam's ears rang momentarily from the concussion of both barrels' discharge, but ever after was convinced that, just for a second, a melodic and deep-yet-sexless voice had whispered faintly in his ear, '_I can choreograph serendipitous miracles without importune urgings from the peanut gallery, thank-you-very-much-Samuel' _.

For a moment Sam froze, but then veered away from the towering theological implications of what he _thought _he'd just heard. In a crisis, time seemed to slow down so a second lasted minutes, but in reality the time elapsed from Dean's scream to EML prostrate on the blacktop had only been about one-quarter of one-second.

And just in time, for just as EML was performing his under-any-other-circumstances-comical pratfall, a PD patrol car and a County sheriff's vehicle had pulled off the highway into the diner parking lot; their lights were flashing and as Sam's hearing cut back in, the discordant wail of their sirens made his ears hurt.

"' _Carpe jugulum'2 boys: seize it and charge – some folks call it 'forward momentum' too, but whatever, just roll right over anyone who tries to be a roadblock and you'll more than likely bull through, even against something that's a lot bigger, badder and meaner than you,' _Sam could hear his dad's voice echoing in his head, one of many of John Winchester's aphorisms in training his sons to follow his demon hunting life, '_Believe me, in the Marines I knew guys who knew how to seize forward momentum and they were unstoppable – they didn't just survive but actively won through in situations where reason, logic and even sanity had them hugely outnumbered or – supposedly - hopelessly doomed to fail.'"_

So, as the two patrol officers and the sh- no, deputy sheriff – scrambled out of their cars, their eyes widening at the tableau in front of them, Sam grabbed the initiative.

"Officers!" he cried out as loudly as he could, aware of the diner's staff and customers boiling out of the building behind him, their voices a shrill, meaningless gabbling, "Sheriff!" - the 'mis-honorific' was a deliberate ego-stroke to the deputy - "Help! Over here, quick!"

All three surged over to him, their hands pulling out their side-arms and aiming impartially at both Sam and EML, but their faces bearing the uncertainty of people aware that the _bad_ guy did not usually urgently call for their assistance. Sam just had time to dart a glance at Libby who remained literally statuesque – her face was bloodless but she met his eyes and her eyelashes swept down in a sign she'd got it together and was just waiting for her cue.

Once you'd got the initiative, it was vital to keep it, so again Sam pre-empted them; losing his classic law-officer-covering-felon-stance, he swiftly and smoothly tucked the handgun into the back of his pants' waistband again, and drew in a breath as if to speak.

Flawlessly hitting the mark, Libby quite literally flung herself into the Grateful Rescued Damsel Scene by suddenly throwing herself into Sam's embrace and crying out, "YOU SAVED US!" at a decibel-level several notches louder than was necessary.

"It's okay, it's all okay," Sam patted her back, hoping his own face was managing to pull off the Modest Hero look, but prudently throwing down a bit more ego-corn for the law enforcement contingent anyway, "The police are here now, you're safe!"

Libby was shaking exaggeratedly and making loud sobbing noises, burying her face in Sam's shoulder so they couldn't see she was remarkably dry-eyed for a hysteric. However, like a lot of men faced with a tearful wailing female, the three officers were focussing their attention on more comfortable target, the hapless Ex-Mr-Libby, who was hauled, blubbering, to his feet and handcuffed as the officers took in his inebriated state and the shotgun next to him, their faces going pale as they made the connection between the apparently traumatised Libby hugging Sam and then becoming more respectful as they looked again at the shaggy-haired 'kid' who had clearly faced off against a drunken lunatic.

But not all Libby's tremors were false – neither were Sam's own, as reaction was now setting in for all of them. Speaking of all of them, the trio of cops were showing remarkable _sangfroid_ about the big-ass panther who should be a couple of yards away. Craning his head past Libby's hair, Sam saw the explanation. Dean was practically invisible by virtue of the fact that he was covered with kids – three to be precise.

Dean was seated upright on the grass, Dime-Store Indian still, his head and front hugged by a girl, his upper torso had Daryl plastered to it and Toby was almost burrowing like a mole into the fur. Only Dean's twitching ears and his tail – securely wrapped around Toby – were largely visible. It would take a couple of minutes before the cops realised the ears and tail were wrong for the animal currently keeping the kids out of their hair to be a _dog…_

In fact, possibly considerably more than a couple of minutes as the diner people finally trotted up, everyone talking at once to everyone at once with the babbling relief of people who have just seen impending horror blessedly averted, though sirens heralded the arrival of more police cars – in the epicentre of the din Sam instinctively looked over and caught one glowing green eye that was looking at him from the gap under a childish elbow. With effortless telepathy, the brothers shared the thought: _who'd ever have thought we'd be **glad**__to see cops_…

But then Sam realised that the plainclothes officers with the odd equipment in the unmarked cars weren't plainclothes officers in unmarked cars. They were toting cameras, and microphones, and there was a van with the logo of a TV station Sam had never of…ergo local…a local TV _news_ channel? Sam gulped as he saw another one that had more familiar initials: CNN…

_Continued in Chapter 27…_

© 2007, Catherine D. Stewart

Author's Note: I hope the explanation below is helpful, though as an Englishwoman I lack familiarity with guns.

1 Police officers hold a handgun vertically with one hand around the grip and use the other hand to rest the 'butt' of the handgun in their palm and support their hand/wrist. But in a variety of movies, TV shows and rap 'music' videos you will probably see at some point the hero/villain(s) or both waving around a handgun in one hand as if conducting some invisible orchestra, or jabbing the gun into some unfortunate's face whilst holding it horizontally instead of vertically. However, while this looks cool (to persons of a certain mentality at any rate) it is neither practical nor feasible. It's (a) amazing how much even the slightest millimetre of deviation of the gun-barrel from the target can make the shot go wide by a larger margin than you'd imagine (due to the _parabola_ which is usually called the trajectory), and (b) there is also a little something called _recoil_.

The impetus necessary to propel a bullet from a gun's firing chamber at several hundred fps (feet-per-second) comes at the cost of making the gun 'buck' or jerk in your hand; this is muzzle-energy, or recoil. With the heavier calibre handguns, such as certain Glocks, Smith & Wessons and of course, the mighty Magnum, the recoil caused by firing the gun whilst holding it in such a manner as portrayed in the media mentioned above _would certainly break your wrist_.

Basically, when you fire a gun, you are in theory shooting – propelling the bullet - in a straight horizontal line, this is the _trajectory_ (imagine an imaginary line drawn from the barrel of the gun to your target). However, in reality, bullets travel in a _parabola_, which is a fancy term meaning a (very) shallow curve, not a straight line. When the bullet first leaves the barrel, it's _trajectory_ rises slightly above the imaginary straight line to the target over a short distance (say 10 feet) and then falls slightly below it over a longer distance (say 50 feet) This means that (unless you are shooting at something from point-black range of mere inches) if you move your gun barrel even by a millimetre, the bullet can miss your target or hit something you didn't want it to – say a gas tank – by several inches or even more – the further away your target, the more curved the bullet's trajectory and the wider margin by which you will miss.

The _calibre_ (American: _calibre_; British English pronounces it Kally-bh to rhyme with rally-huh, not Kal-i-burr to rhyme with hal-eye-fur) of the gun is how much each bullet _weighs_. Bullets are weighed in _grains_, specifically the grains of gunpowder that makes each bullet. The more gunpowder each bullet contains, the more grains it has, so the more it weighs, so the greater its _calibre_. According to **_Armed & Dangerous _**by Michael Newton (1990) 437.5 grains of gunpowder 1 ounce. _Muzzle velocity_ is the speed – measured in _feet per second_ - at which the bullet _leaves the gun barrel_ (the friction of the air as the bullet travels will lessen velocity the further the bullet goes). This varies according to the _calibre_ of the gun. The smaller the calibre (the less the bullets weigh) the faster the muzzle velocity, because lighter things travel faster than heavy things – see how much effort it takes you to throw a baseball or tennis ball, then try and throw an encyclopaedia or a brick the same distance – again though, this can vary depending on how (and how well) the gun has been modified/designed. Muzzle _energy_ is the recoil or 'kick' produced by firing the gun – this is the force, measured in _foot-pounds_ of the bullet at the moment it is fired from the gun. A _foot-pound_ is defined as 'a unit of measurement equalling the work done by a force of one pound when its point of application (i.e., the moment of firing) travels a distance of one foot in the direction of the force.' (Newton, Armed & Dangerous, (1990) page 173). However, in some instances a handgun is designed to reduce 'kick'. One of the world's smallest handguns, the .22 calibre Remington Jet pistol, has a weight of 40 grains, a muzzle velocity of 2100fps and a recoil of 390 ft/lbs, whereas the .32 calibre Smith & Wesson has a weight of 88 grains, a muzzle velocity of 680fps but a recoil of only 90ft/lbs. The greater the recoil, the more you need to hold a gun in both hands and support your wrist to prevent sprain, torn tendons or a broken wrist. 'Dirty Harry's' .44 calibre Magnum had a recoil of 970ft/lbs that would seriously hurt.

2 Carpe Jugulum – 'seize the jugular'; a witty twist on the famous Latin phrase, _carpe diem_, seize the day, made hugely popular in Britain when author Terry Pratchett made it the title of a novel in his popular _Discworld_ fantasy series.


	27. Chapter 27

_**Disclaimer,** **Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

NB – I have reposted Chapter 27 after nikki98499 pointed out that this story is set before Provenance, so therefore Dean and Sam have not met Isaiah Marchant's cheerfully psychopathic adopted daughter yet. Oops! I have just altered a few sentences. Thanks to nikki, ohcEEcho, razorbackgal0225, Silverstorm06, Silverkitsune01 and everyone else who has and continues to review this story. I will try and get Chapter 28 up by the weekend, barring any further disasters (flat tyre – "two of them are illegal, you need replacements, that'll be £56 please")!

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 27**

Sam looked over at Dean; without either uttering a sound they shared the same opinion in one telepathic glance, expressed in the silent agreement of one exasperated word: _shit._

The whole point had been to get from Sullivan's to "Kala", the Kahuna's place, in California as fast as possible whilst being as inconspicuous as possible. Dean's idiosyncratic method of clearing a traffic jam had hardly helped that goal, particularly as classic 1960s era muscle-cars were hardly thronging America's roads even without a free-panther-thrown-in; so this media-circus in the making was the last thing they needed, especially as it wasn't rocket science to wonder whether the rare car+panther combo of the traffic jam and the rare car+panther combo of the "Shootout at Denny's" were one and the same.

Fortunately, Libby, bless her, was a 'deal now collapse in private later' kind of woman and was doing her best to get the cops to take her and the kids to the precinct so they could throw the book and hopefully some sharp implements at her ex-husband, now whining and blubbering like he was younger than Toby. The cops were also fairly sanguine about the big cat, thanks to Libby's kids. Their hands had nervously gone for their guns when they'd finally registered what the animal was, but all seemed to realise the ridiculousness of appearing frightened of an animal three children were using as a giant cuddly toy.

Sam wasn't even that concerned about the vans he could see for national news outlets such as CNN, CBS, Bloomberg and Fox News, etc. With coast-to-coast news outlets there was no way this story at a minor diner stop would make it onto News At 11; inevitably some better (or usually worse) incidents would come along in short order and knock Sam-and-his-cat ever further down the schedule of 'news worth broadcasting' until they were knocked off altogether.

It was the local TV networks/newspapers that had nothing better to do than cover Wherethehellisthat in the Great State of Boring, whose people were currently trying to finagle their way past the uniformed officers manning the demarcation tape, that were the problem.

A monotonous cycle of covering church picnics, the Mayor's charity gala week 1,427, and that farmer Smith's prize pig had escaped for the 7,234th time made these rural reporters rabid when it came to any story that, no matter how faintly, had the slightest potential to be actually interesting and, more importantly, would give their careers the turbo boost they needed to shake the farm manure of Boondocks City off their feet and move somewhere they'd never again have to use the words 'news' 'farmer' 'pig' and 'escaped' in the same sentence.

By dint of 'laying it on with a trowel' and with Libby's subtle assistance, plus Dean keeping still and quiet, Sam was managing to ease himself to the periphery of events. Once the cops turned up all the rubber-neckers from the diner had crowded round and were all trying to tell the same cop their stories at once.

Ramping up his 'aw-shucks, I'm just a good ole Southern boy yokel' demeanour of slightly stupid innocence to the maximum, Sam gave the cops a carefully edited version of his 'role'. Downplaying his involvement to the extent he was almost claiming he just happened to be passing when EML tripped over his own feet, Sam interspersed his words with lots of respectful 'Sirring' and, until corrected, persistently referred to the deputies as 'Sheriff'. Not only very ego-stroking but it also gave the impression that Sam was so unaccustomed to dealing with the forces of law and order that he couldn't tell the difference between ranks unless it was explained slowly in little words. Sam could practically see the cops beginning to re-categorize him as 'nice but dim kid with that typically over-developed Southern sense of chivalry', and inside he was turning cartwheels. Dean, wisely, was also obviously attempting to exude 'big but cuddly' rather than 'large and savage'.

As if finally deciding to give the Winchesters a break for once Ex-Mr-Libby also began to kick off, despite having been read his Miranda rights incriminating himself quite nicely. Obviously unimpressed and with Libby expressing an eager willingness to press charges for any crime they could make stick, the cops finally began to shepherd everyone to the cars and make 'thanks for your statement you can go just leave a contact number' noises at Sam.

_Finally!_

"Stop right there! Felony! Stop! Arrest him!"

Both Sam and Dean, the latter about to sinuously pad away to the Impala, froze and this time exchanged startled 'WTF?' glances. Suddenly Sam found himself backing up and looking down as he was barracked by a short, fat dude in an obviously cheap suit who was jabbing a podgy finger at him. _Huh?_

The police were obviously equally confused but cameras and microphones swooped in as the man loudly declared himself to be a Peeper?!

"A peeper?" Sam repeated in confusion, acutely aware of the very bad combination of Dean's body being still but his tail twitching in growing agitation, though the panther was probably not consciously aware of it.

Regardless of being surrounded by armed police Dean would instantly kill the fat man if he appeared to be attacking Sam, because just like Sam, Dean was aware that small and podgy didn't mean 'no threat'. A lifetime of hunting had taught Sam that often the most apparently harmless or insignificant thing was often the most dangerous:; a placid lake harbouring the vengeful spirit of a murdered boy; prime real estate that killed anyone setting foot on it thanks to the righteous curse of murdered Indians, and of course a family of apparently harmlessly eccentric local yokels who were completely non-supernatural and still a family of serial killers.

"PEPRA1 - People for the Ethical Protection and Rehabilitation of Animals!" snapped the man, his face flushing. "We campaign for the closing down of zoos and the release of animals into the wild!"

_Well, you've just alienated every kid in earshot, plus all these guys who look like ranchers and farmers who don't want their livestock to be a cougar's lunch, and every animal conservationist who knows that zoos are the only thing between too many species and extinction_, Sam thought to himself with faint satisfaction, reassured by the scowls on the faces of practically everyone including the police.

But podgy, whose name seemed to be Henry Eustace, was suffering from full-on verbal diarrhoea, clearly pontificating for the cameras as some - doubtless self-appointed - 'animal welfare expert'. He wagged his finger in Sam's face like a parent scolding a naughty child as his own face became more towards eggplant-purple; Sam thought uncharitably that obviously Podgy's concern for animals didn't prevent him stuffing his face with animal products daily. If Sam had been somewhere more private, Podgy would now nursing a broken waggling finger and coughing in the dust kicked up by the Impala's wheels.

"You cannot just put that animal in a car and drive away! It should be in the wild, where it belongs!" Podgy wound down finally with a final hectoring declamation as if expecting Sam to instantly and meekly respond with a 'yes, sir, off you go kitty'.

"I don't think so," Sam snapped shortly, obviously checking his wristwatch and addressing the cops, "If you need me for anything else officers, please feel free to call my number."

Podgy spluttered afresh as the police were clearly intending to do nothing but wave Sam off; his eyes narrowed, "Under California State legislation I can insist you arrest anyone not in control of a wild animal! It's a panther!"

The police officers looked uncertain and so Sam jumped into the breach before Podgy could steal the momentum.

"You can forget it!" He declared with forceful anger. He threw out an arm that encompassed the hovering TV cameras and the surrounding public. "I'm on my way to visit a very elderly and very dear family friend, and I'm already behind schedule."

"Irrelevant! The - "

Podgy tried to trumpet over him but Sam just ploughed on, "Not to me and not to an old man who will be worrying himself sick that I've had an accident on the way!" Sam barked the lie loudly offering up a silent prayer that Sullivan's Kahuna friend Kala didn't get the local news channels this story would probably end up being broadcast on, but his ploy was working as like most small American communities respect and concern for the elderly was inbred, and Podgy had just lost another chunk of support and sympathy.

Sam played his trump card, embellishing, "The only reason I was still even at this diner in time to save a woman and _three children _from being _brutally _murdered was for the benefit of my cat! And for your information, dude, he is not 'that animal', his name is _Dean_."

Score another one for Sam; with his carefully emphasised words and his personalising the panther as a being in its own right he had subtly reminded everyone that Dean had been instrumental in saving children from a horrific death.

"Your actions were commendable," Podgy huffed, too arrogant to realise how dismissive and patronising his words sounded, "But that doesn't change the fact that-"

"Like hell 'it doesn't change the fact that'," Sam mimicked Podgy's pompous tone so perfectly it drew grins - rapidly wiped away - from the surrounding police. Looking at the police officers he asked with simulated outrage, "Are you seriously telling me that my _thank-you _for risking my life to save _children _from a gun-toting maniac is to be _harassed _in my legitimate daily business by this joker?!"

"Absolutely not," the senior cop present finally grasped the nettle. "I have no worries about the animal being any danger to humans."

"Any wild animal is unpredictable!" protested Podgy.

"Dean has never been a wild animal," Sam instantly contradicted, suppressing his own memories of Dean's tendency to irrational volatility, "He's been with my family since he was a cub; _dumping_ him in the middle of a Californian wilderness and _abandoning_ him to fend for himself would be the same as killing him - he'd starve to death!"

"Nonsense, his instincts would kick in!" declared Podgy. "Large predators like cats are programmed to be opportunistic hunters - he'll kill and eat rabbits and deer."

"And calves and lambs," called one rancher-looking type from the crowd angrily.

Arrogantly Podgy gestured towards the diner's manager, "Just throw down some raw hamburger and watch – instinct will kick in, I assure you." he claimed smugly.

_Gotcha,_ thought Sam. As the senior police officer turned to Sam he pre-empted him by venting a deep, exaggerated sigh and checking his wristwatch. "Alright, fine…but then please may I be allowed to leave, so I can get to my friend's house _before_ he _worries_ himself into an _anxiety attack_ or wastes his _social security money_ phoning hospitals unnecessarily?"

Podgy gave him a look of fury, but the diner manager hurried off to fetch some raw meat, coming back with a large joint of cheap, fatty steak that Sam bet would have been destined for the hamburger mince-machine. Sam pulled out his wallet but the diner manager, probably with an eye to good publicity, refused to accept so much as a nickel. Sam knew that thanks to this afternoon's entertainment, this diner would for a time become the most profitable in the chain; the manager would personally take people to the "spot where…" and charge extra to those wanting to sit at the "panther table" and "big cat burgers for the real carnivore" would be sold at an impressive mark-up over the normal version.

With a bit of over-dramatic nerviness, the manager tossed the joint of meat down about two feet in front of where Dean was sprawled out lazily on the grass, apparently sunbathing without a care in kitty-world. Sam had to suppress a smirk at Dean's hamming it up, but acknowledged within himself how lucky Dean was to have retained his sense of "self" after the transformation. It would have been catastrophic – intending no pun, Sam winced inwardly even as he thought the word - if the transformation into the leopard had also robbed Dean of the higher mental faculties that made humans sentient life-forms whereas animals were not. Driven by basic drives of hunger and man-fear, Dean would probably have attacked Sam, and getting him from Westlake to Bakersfield any other way than by shooting him full of tranks, bundling him in the trunk and driving like hell would have been impossible.

If looks could combust, the raw steak would now be incinerated if Podgy's glare was anything to go by; Dean didn't so much as twitch at the steak, and one minute stretched into two.

Sam gave a loud sniff and with exaggerated politeness asked of nobody in particular, "Can I go _now_?"

Face beetroot with mortification, Podgy unfortunately seemed to have an inspiration born of desperation, "Wait! It probably needs to be moving - just put a _live_ animal in front of it and the panther's instincts will take over."

"Oh, for…!" Sam bit off the expletives with an anger that was no longer simulated, and shot a look of appeal towards the cops.

The senior police officer pursed his lips, clearly wanting to let Sam and Dean just go on their way, but acutely aware of the reality of the legislation – and also the potential for his ass to be sued for mega-bucks should he overrule Podgy only for Dean to eat a mailman or chow down on someone two days from now. "Look, I appreciate that you're already behind schedule, but… I'm sure this _suggestion _won't take _long_..." his emphasis on the latter words, directed at Podgy, were clearly an order.

Sam had no choice - he couldn't annoy the cops - but of course _they _didn't know that. "Okay, but can it be quick?" he asked plaintively in a way which made it clear who he blamed.

From somewhere - Sam suspected a nearby trucker had live poultry as cargo - a live chicken was unceremoniously deposited on the expanse of grass in front of where Dean, wisely, had remained lying still as if soaking up the sun.

Understandably, the bird squawked and flapped and at this impertinent treatment which made Podgy beam – until he realised that Dean was taking no notice of the bird either. After about half-a-minute the chicken, when it wasn't assaulted again and not being the brightest species of the avian spectrum, began to peck about in the grass for food, being completely ignored by the panther. Sam didn't even bother to hide his grin.

"Right," the senior cop said firmly, "Thanks for you help, son, and sorry to delay you further. I think we're satisfied _now_, aren't we Mr Eustace?" His tone warned Podgy that the answer better be "yes".

Sam felt a prickle of warning as he saw the flicker of sudden cunning cross Podgy's face; the fat dude had grabbed at what he thought was an opportunity for self-publicity and self-aggrandizement against the 'soft' victim of an easily browbeaten boy only to be roundly routed and publicly humiliated. Since an ego like that would never accept the truth that he only had himself to blame, he would now be desperate to punish Sam.

"Very well, I agree," Eustace's fat jowls wobbled like the chicken's wattles as he spoke with a sniff as if graciously according his approval rather than obeying the tacit order the cop's words had been. "All I need to do to satisfy the legislation is to check the Veterinary Health Certificate – Exotica Class2 for the animal to confirm it's current."

And there it was; a cold lump of ice settled in Sam's stomach and he saw Podgy's piggy little eyes gleam with triumph as the man realised that finally he'd found a way to throw his weight around, because Sam sure as hell did not have a Veterinary Health Certificate, particularly as he'd never even heard of it.

_Continued in Chapter 28…_

© _2007 _C D Stewart

1 PEPRA is entirely fictitious; however, it is beyond my control if any reader chooses to assume it is a pseudonym for real-life organisations that have proven themselves to be malicious, fanatic and far more destructive to the animals they purport to want to "protect" than those they persecute. In 1998 the eco-system of one of England's most ancient forests was devastated when these fanatics released over 1,000 American Mink (vicious and voracious predators) into it in a single night. In 2006, animal 'rights' activists campaigned outside certain American schools telling the children that dairy products – in particular cow's milk – was bad for them and contained 'pus'.

2 Please note that the Veterinary Health Certificate – Exotica Class only exists, as far as I am aware, in my own imagination. As I understand it, the laws and legislation covering the keeping of "exotic" pets differs wildly between the UK and the USA, and within the USA, there are considerable differences from one State to another(?).

On mainland Britain – Scotland, Wales and England - from the 1960s many people kept "exotic" pets like pythons, iguanas and 'big cats' – pumas, panthers, tigers, etc – with impunity until the British Government introduced the Dangerous Wild Animals Act of 1976. This sought to force owners to pay up to £200 ($360 US in 1976) (£1500/$800 US in today's terms) to 'register' these animals, as a way to get some quick cash into the Treasury's coffers, and also insisted the owner obtain an annually renewable (and therefore repeat-fee) license from their local council for the privilege. The council could also specify in nitpicking detail where and how the animal was kept and required keepers to have their animals covered by a satisfactory liability insurance policy.

The list of animals classed as "exotic" covered a wide variety such as many primates, carnivores, bears, larger reptiles, dangerous spiders and scorpions. Since many owners could not afford all this outlay and many that could would not, from 1975 when it became known that the Act was imminent through until 1977 when the authorities' vigilance to spot dumpers was at it's height there was a spate of owners taking pets deep into the English countryside and simply abandoning them. Particularly popular dumping grounds were places like the Scottish Highlands, Welsh Hills, Dartmoor, Exmoor and the Yorkshire Moors. Since these consist of many square miles of land uninhabited by humans and therefore no natural and competing predators, and a large supply of prey animals in the form of roaming sheep, cattle and wild ponies, in a single stroke the "natural" life-span of an animal like a mountain lion was increased by up to ten years. In 1975 a panther (black leopard) cub was captured in Kent, but never its parents who presumably carried on breeding. In 1980 a puma was captured near Inverness, Lynx sightings are common now in 2007 and in 2001 (25 years after 1976) an urban European Lynx was captured in Cricklewood, London. In a 2000 TV documentary, a former lion tamer admitted he released a full-grown panther and a cougar onto the Yorkshire Moors near Sheffield in 1976. Also in 2000 an 11-year-old boy was attacked and bitten by a juvenile leopard in an attempt to obtain an easy meal.

In the United States of America, there is as far as I know no Federal legislation governing the keeping of exotic pets and there is definitely none governing the keeping of "big cats" (like panther Dean!) as pets. Some states have no rules, others an outright ban.


	28. Chapter 28

_**Disclaimer,**__**Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 28**

There was a viscerally satisfying crunch as Henry Eustace's nose broke and his howls he grabbed his bloody proboscis was sweet music…

Sam gave himself an extra second to savour the fantasy before fixing a look of loathing at the podgy, smirking face, and making sure he didn't glance at Dean. Cat or not, Dean would know perfectly well what wishful images had played in front of Sam's Mind's Eye and his green eyes would be glowing with amusement and encouragement.

"My dad has the Certificate for Dean," Sam improvised on the spot, striving to keep his tone clipped and cold rather than nervous, "because _he_ rescued Dean as a cub." Perfectly true – John had shoved Dean from the burning nursery, giving him the precious bundle of his baby brother, whom Dean had saved.

"Can your father bring the certificate on over?" asked one of the deputies, forgetting in his eagerness to help out Sam at Eustace's expense that Sam had already indicated he was from out of State. 

"My dad's on vacation, in the Blue Ridge Mountains," Sam lied like a rug, "and before you ask about faxing or emailing, my dad can barely work a toaster."

"Without the certificate –" Eustace began to bluster, his face flushing with spiteful pleasure.

Sam's eyes finally went the cold, flat grey of a mountain ice lake, the sort of grey that they were, though he was unaware of it, when he thought of the YED or was hunting something evil that preyed on innocent people. It effectively silenced Eustace. "Dude, my dad works his butt off to get by because he had to leave the Corps when my mom died," Sam mixed truth and lie rapidly as he judged his audience, "and if you seriously think for one second I'm going to hassle my dad on his _only_ yearly break for stupid bit of paper-!"

As Sam hoped, the sheriff cut in almost as if he were on cue, "Your pop's a veteran, son?"

"Uncle Sam's Misguided Children," Sam confirmed the nickname of the United States' Marine Corps, "Gunnery Sergeant."

Eustace had now entirely lost any support and the flash of fury showed he knew it. Even in 'liberal' strongholds such as San Francisco and blue-chip aristocratic playgrounds like Martha's Vineyard, military personnel were held in tremendous respect, and 'special' forces such as the Army Rangers, Delta Force, U.S. Navy SEALs and particularly the USMC, were greatly revered for their tremendous sacrifices in World War II, Korea and Vietnam.

Sam turned to the sheriff (and if that worthy hadn't served at some point with the way he stood, Sam would eat Dean's favoured cheeseburgers for a week) and said, "Sheriff, _please_, when my friend starts to worry one of his first phone calls is going to be my dad, who will drop everything and –"

The Sheriff raised his hand, "Here's what's going to happen. Our local vet will check out that the – that Dean – is healthy and not carrying anything nasty, and then you can be on your way."

"Legislation clearly states –" Eustace began to protest.

"Mr Eustace," the sheriff fixed a cold, beady eye on that worthy. "That was not a suggestion, it was a statement. Accept it, or I'm going to start looking at the legislation as to _wasting police time_, _harassment, public disorder_…need I go on?"

Eustace, finally realising he was himself, never mind the panther, a whisker away from being locked up in a cage by the very unhappy local law, nodded his head sharply.

Not bothering to conceal his irritation, Sam waited until the local vet was called to the scene. A bright canary yellow Volkswagen Beetle pulled up, which strangely reassured Sam. Regardless of their station in life, people who tended to take themselves too seriously and who had an over-inflated opinion of their own importance or expertise did _not_ drive around in quirky cars like that. 

A tall man with a slightly lugubrious air got out, in looks resembling the B. J. Honeycutt character out of MASH, and walked over with calm confidence his manner. 

He addressed the sheriff. "What do you need me for –", breaking off as he registered what the big black animal actually _was_. He looked around as it dawned upon him just why he was the cynosure of all eyes. "You _cannot_ be serious?!"

Aware of the surrounding crowd - or as he no doubt thought of them, 'voters', the sheriff went into "good ole boy" overdrive with the vet, who finally, reluctantly agreed - but then pulled out the makings for a syringe of sedative from his bag.

Sam leaped in with a veto instantly not caring how much he irritated the cops and not needing to so much as glance to feel the waves of '_he tries it, I'll take his arm off_,' hostility from Dean. Not that Sam needed any such prompt - nobody was going to sedate Dean, period.

"You can't seriously expect me to check out the health of a _leopard _without sedation-"

"I can because that's the whole point of this farce," snapped Sam. "Me and 'that leopard' saved this woman and her children from being shot to death by her drunken loser of a husband, and our reward has been harassment and obstructionism by _him_," he jerked a thumb at the offending and offensive Henry Eustace, "I have _guaranteed_ you will be able to examine Dean and see that he is perfectly healthy without any form of sedation, as long as you treat him with respect for what he is, otherwise you _deserve_ to lose an arm...if you _won't _examine Dean as he is I am leaving this three-ring circus _now_."

It was a calculated bluff, laying down an ultimatum Sam couldn't follow through with, but it worked. Looking like he'd accidentally swallowed a bug, the vet stepped forward. Sam moved forward with him.

"Can you get him up on that picnic table?" the vet asked, his demeanour still that of someone facing root canal surgery, who has just been told 'we're all out of anaesthetic'.

"Sure," Sam agreed with casual confidence, since he of course was the only one who knew he didn't have to actually do anything.

Dean sinuously bounded up on the table top and sprawled out, making it look as if he were following some silent directive from Sam. Amusement rolled off the cat in waves but was tempered by an accompanying alertness that reassured Sam; they couldn't afford to have their details 'run' through by the cops, at least not until they were too far away to realistically pursue, nor could they lose the goodwill of the surrounding media and crowd.

Showing the same tentativeness that Libby and Lacy had, the vet placed on hand on the panther's skull making nervous stroking motions. 

However, as Dean tolerated his actions, the man's confidence grew and his professional instincts came to the fore. He checked inside Dean's ears with a penlight, and then his eyes. 

Sam was biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from smirking, until it occurred to him that this was probably the first time ever Dean had been properly medically examined. Dean was King in the land of "stoically enduring excruciating pain". He brushed off hospitals and even charity clinics and his usual attitude was to cram Tylenol, or pour a mixture of Holy Water and peroxide over a wound and then stitch it up even as it smoked and made you gag from the whiffs of cauterising flesh.

"Excellent teeth," the vet murmured half to himself, which did surprise Sam considering the junk Dean usually ingested, but there again, it was a calcium-heavy diet in terms of milk, cheese, butter and eggs. 

The vet checked the paws for thorns and cuts and also the 'dew-claws' - infamous for causing problems with tears and infections. 

The vet ran his hands down Dean's flanks and for the first time frowned, pressing his palms more firmly and leaning in close to examine the black fur; automatically looking, Sam could see odd faint grey hairs, which on a human body would correspond to old scars. 

"Has he suffered broken ribs?" Nervousness was forgotten as the vet's concern for animals - far more genuine than that of Henry Eustace - came to the fore, and he fixed Sam with a stern eye that matched his sharper tone.

Since, if someone ever managed to put together Dean's injury records as a human from all his aliases and pseudonyms, it would appear that he was savaged by a rabid grizzly on average every six weeks or so, Sam promptly did the sensible thing and truthfully admitted it.

"Yes sir..." he meekly gave the honorific, and then 'explained', "a few years ago Dean was in back of our car when a drunk driver ploughed into it and he bore the brunt." Sam stopped himself at that point, resisting the temptation to elaborate some tale of panther-Dean heroically dragging Sam and/or their dad from the blazing wreck. John's instruction echoed in his head: _don't gild the lily_; a lie should be kept as close to the truth as possible. 

Fortunately the vet was satisfied by this and rapidly finished his check, wisely not venturing too close to the panther's genitals as if aware, as a man, that this would be a bridge too far.

"I can't speak in terms of the microcosm, not without taking bloods," the vet stated, "but in my opinion this animal is perfectly healthy - in fact it's in better condition that a lot of the people I know," he cast a sly look at the sheriff's hint of a spare tyre.

"Right," the sheriff stated firmly, "Son, thanks for your heroism, and your patience in the face of _provocation_. Hope you have a safe journey now."

Inwardly Sam was whooping and doing a jig but he merely shook hands with the sheriff and the vet and bid them a polite goodbye as he "led" Dean to the Impala.

_Continued in Chapter 29_

© C D Stewart, 2007

NB – the opening 'scene' was for  writer ohcEcho.


	29. Chapter 29

_**Disclaimer,**__**Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

NB – Please see author's note at end.

**Chapter 29**

Sam blew out a huge, deep breath as the rest stop and the news cameras dwindled in their rear view mirror. "Dean, you okay?"

The panther nodded affirmatively.

Sam sighed, "So much for an 'under-the-radar' journey to the kahuna. Sorry, man."

Dean rolled his shoulders in that shrugging motion and gave a yowl-growl that Sam knew was along the lines of, '_dude, what else were we supposed to do, let that world-class scumbag massacre his wife and kids?' just because we wanted to be inconspicuous?_'

They'd lost most of the day's useful travelling time by that point, but Sam was confident that they could make it up the following morning with an early start. Dean growled an agreement that conveyed one day's delay in getting to the kahuna in SoCal wouldn't make any difference. Besides, as Sullivan had pointed out, there was no way of knowing just when Dean would revert back to human form - he could change back thirty seconds from now or still be a panther in six months without the kahuna's help. As he pulled into the parking lot of another low-end motel, Sam wryly acknowledged that if the Winchester Luck - all bad - held true, Dean would suddenly change back to human form just as Sam was pulling up the Impala on the kahuna's front yard.

Sam parked at the far end of the lot near the end of the row of rooms to be as inconspicuous as possible. He had driven for a good hour after leaving the rest stop but had no idea how far the 'local' news would be broadcast or what bigger networks might have picked it up. 

Without needing the advice, Dean got down from the front passenger seat into the foot well just in case, and as Sam tramped across the lot in the early evening drizzle (working itself up into proper rain) he was relieved to look back and see that the car's position under the overhanging shrubbery at the edge of the lot made it look just like any other anonymous, beat-up old clunker...a description he had better never repeat in front of Dean. Sam was semi-seriously convinced that Dean's tendency to womanise came from the fact that Dean was really in love with his car; yet one more quirk in his older brother's "unique", and slightly twisted, psyche.

He went into the dingy lobby, which was an inadequately lit nicotine-reeking replica of a million other cheap motel lobbies that looked as if it had been decorated once and for all time circa 1952. 

The desk clerk looked like that freaky guy at the news-stand in Men In Black I, who Will Smith thought was the alien until it turned out to be that little pug dog. The mostly burned away cigarette dangling from between his lips indicated how he got to look like the living dead. To Sam's relief, however, the guy continued to maintain his dead-from-the-neck-up routine without any hint of recognising Sam as, "Hey you're the dude with the panther!"

Sam took the furthest room from the office despite it appearing he was the only guest; the desk clerk evinced no curiosity as to this apparent overzealous desire for privacy and the instant Sam had the key he simply turned and shuffled silently in back; Sam caught a flicker of the screen and realised why the guy was so focussed - it was some local skin flick channel showing the "classic", _Debbie Does Dallas_.

Going back along under the veranda which made his ears hum as the increasingly forceful rain bounced off it, Sam opened the room door and heard the click as Dean flowed from the Impala's passenger side. He grinned as even despite the rain, the panther carefully used his shoulder to nudge the door back shut - forbid any rain should get into Dean's precious baby!

The room comprised a single large but sagging queen-sized bed; however, the bedclothes appeared to be clean, albeit it very threadbare - another wash cycle would probably disintegrate them.

"There's a rest stop just over the highway. Burger and fries with extra onions and coffee?" Sam asked.

The panther nodded as Dean headed into the bathroom to shake the droplets off his fur. 

Jumping back into the Impala, Sam went over to the diner, which had just two big rigs in the lot, the drivers of which were apparently asleep in their cabs since the only people in the diner besides him was a middle-aged, frumpy waitress and the short-order cook who unreassuringly could have been the desk clerk's twin. Sam ordered four large burgers and fries to go, one with no onions, and two large coffees. Dean would devour the three burgers and most of the coffee with no problem and if Sam was lucky, he could persuade his brother to eat some of his own as well.

Back in the room, Sam sat at the tiny, rickety table and ate his fries but eschewed the greasy burger. Dean, who had simply inhaled the food onions and all, growled in agitation.

"Forget it," Sam refused, shuddering, "Your leopard taste-buds might not register anything above and beyond meaty goodness but trust me, one bite was enough. It's all yours."

Dean promptly chomped the burger before tentatively getting on the bed, which sagged alarmingly under his weight; Sam resigned himself to a night of backache from the sprained mattress. The thing had probably been bought brand new when Adam was a kid.

Abruptly Sam's cell began to ring, making him jump. The caller ID read: JBW - Dad?!

"Uh, Dad?" Sam answered the phone tentatively as Dean froze on the bed.

"Sam," John's raspy voice came over clearly, "Are things ok with you and Dean?"

"Uh, yes sir." Sam was completely thrown by this sudden paternal contact. John only called his sons when it involved "work", not to make general enquiries about their health and happiness.

"Well, I'm sat in a motel room in Burbank, New Mexico, watching a local news report about a heroic vacationer who saved a woman and her kids with his pet panther. There were plenty of shots of the kid's car..."

Sam winced, "Yes, sir...Dean..."

"Is a panther?"

"Yeah..."

Instead of the expected harsh, 'and you didn't think this worthy of mention?' riff, John simply said, "How?"

"He was on a job in New Orleans," Sam said in a carefully neutral tone that sought to avoid any 'the first time you abandoned him to fend for himself' connotations, "He killed a hoodoo witch doctor but got caught by part of the spell the guy didn't have time to finish. Turned him into a panther for a couple of days and then he changed back. He didn't think it was worth _mentioning_." This time Sam allowed a little more sarcasm to leach into his tone.

Dean, who had come to the edge of the mattress and was now perched precariously on the end of the bed almost in Sam's lap as he sat on the cramped chair, head-butted Sam's arm warningly.

"He's still...Dean?" 

Sam realised that John was actually worried about him trying to transport a leopard that thought it _was_ a leopard across country. "Oh yes."

Answering amusement was clear in John's tone as he asked, "Is Dean there?"

Shoving his head towards the cell, Dean gave a loud growl, his tail waving backwards and forwards in a positively 'wagging' manner that made Sam wish his photo-enabled cell phone was still in his jacket pocket and not several feet away. 

"Hey son," John's tone was cheerful but tempered with an affection Sam rarely heard from their father at all, but particularly when it came to Dean, whom John had always treated as a fellow, if subordinate, soldier, like a Marine Corporal to his own Sergeant. 

Dean answered with an almost-purr; Sam moved his position and laid his arm around the big cat's neck holding the cell so Dean was in a better position.

"You be careful, Dean," John advised his elder son as if talking to a person transformed into animal were an everyday occurrence, "and mind Sam."

Dean gave a loud snort-sneeze of derision at that one.

"I heard that," chided John. "How're you gonna fix this?"

Sam explained about Missouri and Sullivan.

"He still around?" John asked with obvious pleasure, "Ain't seen him in a coon's age. But Sullivan's solid gold, if he vouches for this kahuna, you can take it to the bank."

"Yes, sir," for all his emotional issues with his dad, Sam implicitly trusted John Winchester's judgement of people and despite his liking of Sullivan, he was subtly reassured by his dad vouching for Sullivan.

"I gotta go," John said with his customary abruptness, "I'll come find you boys soon, ok."

"Sure," Sam answered cheerfully, not believing a word of it but not for anything would he trigger the friction that he had come to realise so distressed Dean.

_Concluded in Chapter 30_

© 2007, C D Stewart

**Author's Note:**

Okay. First to VolaciousWings – not one chapter but 2, enjoy! I must apologise also to the authors of deep breath : _Dancing in the Dark, Bar Fights and Bullets, Lying in Wait_, _Blood Battle, In Reverse, Driving Miss Daisy, Darkness Beckons, That Vision Thing, _etc and etc. 

My email inbox is acquiring a gradually increasing number of "story alerts" that I just have not had time to read. I think _Phx _is working on the 3rd in _All the Kings Horses_ and _Wonderwithme_ is even starting on the sequel to _Lying in Wait,_ gah! (I did try to skim thru Chapter 22 but I have no idea who Ben and Alex are anymore so it's back on the "re-read list"). Then there's _Demonhunter2_ who sent me an email giving me a head's up on the sequel to _**Worth Killing For**_, which is another "re-read". To be honest, I am going to have to go back and re-read most of the stories because although I have tried to skim through them periodically, I have simply got so far behind the chapters don't make sense any more. 

I simply haven't been able to go on the site for about 8 weeks and I am aware of all the great stories I must be missing (at the risk of outraging thousands of readers and writers, thank goodness for slow updaters!). I am also aware of those people who have reviewed _**I Thought I Saw**_ or my stories in general (Sarah, thanks for _**Miles to Go**_ and _**The Whole of the Moon**_ reviews), such as _isel1lja, VolaciousWings, ohcEcho_ and many, many others. I apologise for not responding but I hope you understand my email inbox at the moment is in a triage situation – I only have 24 hours in 1 day and need about, oooh, 60 or so. 

Unfortunately my own illness and that of family is still a major issue, and on top of that – which is why you're getting two chapters of _**I Thought I Saw**_ _and_ my one-off short _**Bobby's Story**_ all at the same time – instead of _upgrading_ me my ISP _disconnected_ my Internet service to my home PC. I was without any home Internet connection since _before _I went to the **Asylum Con** in Coventry, UK (11th – 13th May 2007) until practically the end of the month, so I couldn't upload anything. I have posted a brief account of my Asylum trip (yes, saw Jensen Ackles in the cute flesh) on my personal blog at Yahoo 360 (uk.360. and also at the Supernatural.tv site under my handle The Cat's Whiskers. I am suffering major writer's block with _**False Memory**_ but have got _**Fugits Fugitives**_ on the boil, so I'll see how things play out – I love to write, but I cannot risk my health, so I hope to have your continued patience and tolerance for "tortoise girl". 


	30. Chapter 30

_**Disclaimer,**__**Summary & Rating: **_See Chapter 1

**I THOUGHT I SAW**

**Chapter 30**

"_Deeean._" Sam ground out the word more harshly than he intended, but his own stomach was experiencing a major butterfly infestation of nerves and the too-familiar underlying feeling of nausea; he didn't need the panther's intransigence.

But he could understand Dean's agitation and share it. Today was 'D-Day'; barring any traffic hold-ups they would reach the kahuna's home around lunchtime.

Unfortunately that knowledge had led to the prelude of a stressful night. Sam had dozed lightly and restlessly on the saggy bed with every worn-out spring apparently deciding to gang up and follow his shifting body around the bed to ensure maximum discomfort.

Dean had curled up at the bottom of the bed, about the only bit of the mattress capable of supporting his weight, but every time Sam opened his eyes (each time with them feeling grittier and more sore) Dean had either been sat upright on his haunches with his tail twitching or else silently padding in the cramped room, his repetitive back-and-forth pacing distressingly reminiscent of that psychotic condition that used to be seen in zoo animals kept in concrete cages without space or with no stimulation.

Sam had had to get up at about half-seven when he was so tired he was in danger of dropping off into real sleep, and did his ablutions in lukewarm water as the pipes groaned and chugged alarmingly when he turned the faucet on.

'Breakfast' likewise consisted of a cup of cheap, bitter coffee from the room's portable 'coffeemaker', a machine so incredibly ancient that Sam wouldn't have been surprised to find 'Methuselah woz 'ere 1656 A.A1' graffitied into it...Or if it had exploded when he switched it on, which was why he kept a healthy distance from the shuddering machine.

The coffee tasted as if it had been in the sachet longer than the coffeemaker had been there, but Sam knew his stomach wouldn't tolerate much in the way of food. Dean had growled and turned his head away when Sam offered him the other half of the cup.

But now it was time to leave, Dean was just standing there as if his paws were glued to the carpet, swinging his head and tail back and forth in rhythmic unison; Sam felt for him, but they had no choice here.

"We're at the point of getting you back to your egotistical bipedal self," he pointed out and then encouraged, "Dude, I'm talking about _back to driving the Impala_ and being able to inflict that mullet rock racket onto the ears of innocent bystanders."

Dean bared his teeth at Sam but slowly padded out of the door that Sam closed behind him - there was no sign of life at the motel front office and the clerk would find the key when they came to the room later.

Sam drove in silence, not wanting even his favourite music disturbing him - and which would only aggravate Dean further. On the passenger seat the panther was so tense he was almost vibrating, his eyes glowing emerald.

As if the cosmos had decided to turn the screw for a bit more fun, traffic was surprising light for SoCal - but they hit every red light going, each one of which refused to change to green for at least an hour - or so it felt - each time. Also, unusually for Cali, they were heading into weather that was duller and more cloudy than typical, which Sam desperately tried to ignore as any sort of 'omen'.

But at 1.30pm he turned down a residential street in Bakersfield and pulled up on the front yard of a single-storey house. It had a long front porch and pastel-painted trim, with a neatly manicured lawn, and a trim border of brightly-hued bedding plants.

Sam licked his lips nervously; although Californians were supposedly – almost - as legendary as Texans for their laid-back acceptance of 'whatever floats your boat dude', there were limits to everyone's _laissez-faire_. But the street was quiet and appeared deserted; Sam could only hope most residents were at work - or at least not close enough to distinguish that what could pass as a Rottweiler-type breed was actually a leopard.

Oh well…_Semper Fi,_ suck it up and deal or whatever Dad's trite Marine version of keychain wisdom crap would have been. Moving quickly, Sam walked up and knocked on the door briskly – and jumped when it opened almost immediately. He was disconcerted to find himself gazing into a pair of deep-set Spanish-brown eyes level with his own, so conditioned to automatically looking _down_; the kahuna was taller than general for Polynesians, but he had the big, stocky built typical of Samoan/Hawaiians.

"Er…" Sam drew in a breath

"Sam Winchester, and his brother Dean," the Kahuna's voice was a bass rumble reminiscent of James Earl Jones – how could it be anything else coming out of that chest? "Sullivan called. Come in."

With Dean pressed against his leg like superglue (not that Sam was complaining and would have edged closer to the cat in any case), Sam obeyed the invite, closing the door behind him and following 'Kala' inside. Like many SoCal homes, the house was open-plan with wood or tile floor, washed walls and blinds rather than heat-trapping carpets and curtains.

As he followed the Kahuna out to the back porch, Sam scanned the interior with demon hunting eyes. To the ordinary observer, the house was standard, average and normal, but to the trained eye, clues to the inhabitant's mystical status were easily visible. The spindles on the stair banister rail were ornately carved with seemingly random patterns that though Sam couldn't understand all them, he knew were anything but. Likewise the living room walls had been whitewashed in fresh cream-white and decorated with, again, seemingly random swirls – that really _were_ random paint splodges, except that the _spaces_ between the swirls formed protective sigils.

Similarly, the polished butternut varnish of the hardwood floor had thicker and lighter streaks in some places that 99.9 percent of folks would never notice; Sam, remembering when 'Meg Masters' shadow demons had murdered those people born in Lawrence, recalled how Dean had taken that duct tape and joined the blood-spatters to form a sigil. Sam would lay odds that were he to stop and overlay those streaks on this floor, he would find himself looking at some sort of occult marker, or even a Devil's Trap.

On the back porch that overlooked a neatly tended garden nevertheless packed with all sorts of mystically useful flora, not least of which hemlock, wolfsbane, foxglove, maidenhair, holly, mistletoe, etc., the Kahuna sat down and gestured for Sam to be seated. Dean sat next to Sam's chair, eyes fixed alertly on the Kahuna.

"Sullivan said you may be able to get rid of the curse?" Sam appealed.

Kala raised his eyebrows, "Surely you have been at this long enough to know that you _don't_ break a curse, you just get out of its way."

Sam bit back an impolitic retort, "Yes sir," he conceded, "but I just want my brother back…and not hacking up hairballs all over the place." Even as he jerked his leg away from the snapping teeth he relaxed as a grin flickered over the kahuna's previously impassive face – for all Sullivan's confidence, and Dad's, it made Sam feel better that the guy had passed one of his own personal 'tests' of a person's character.

Something in the Kahuna's eyes made Sam suddenly nervous that Kala wasn't fooled by his witticism one iota, but the big man then turned his gaze upon Dean thoughtfully.

"The curse cannot be removed entirely, but I can – and must – implement some damage control, for it is assuredly very much broken in the practical sense," Kala decreed. "Sullivan told me about the 'twig caught in random river currents' analogy and it is very apropos."

"Whatever you can do to help…" Sam began with heartfelt gratitude.

"I cannot stop Dean from transforming again in the future, or from that happening without warning, randomly," Kala cautioned. "Nonetheless, what I _can_ do is bring some order to chaos, by making it so that Dean will only stay in panther form for a set amount of time and then he will revert back to human form…I think…" he pursed his lips slightly, "…about forty-eight hours."

Dean made a soft appealing noise that Sam accurately translated for him, "Er…how about _eight_ hours?"

The Kahuna smiled briefly but then shook his head. "No. The period of 48 hours is a happy medium. Although Dean may not have felt tremendous pain when he transformed, such shifts from one form to another are very stressful – were-creatures, such as werewolves, for instance, have a much shorter…natural, for want of a better word…lifespan than other supernatural creatures due to the physical toll taken on their bodies by the lunar cycle transformation, and the stress it does to their minds is also well-documented. It is also why demons will continue to inhabit even a badly-injured possessed body and why even Tricksters rarely change form – there is great strain involved even for them."

Sam nodded, realising the point. For Dean to change and then change back in such a short time-lag would not do him any good physiologically.

"Forty-eight hours, or two days, will be enough of a window for Dean to recover from the physical effects of a transformation, whilst limiting the period of inconvenience caused to him and you by being transformed to the minimum." Kala explained.

"Works for me."

Kala led the way to what was obvious some sort of study and inside he had already drawn a circle on the floor, surrounded by slow-burning candles and bowls of some sort of scented herbs. "Dean, please enter the circle and remain as still as possible throughout the ritual."

The cat didn't move.

"Dean," Sam prompted.

The panther looked at the circle with enigmatic eyes, then up at Sam, as if considering something.

"_Dean…_" Sam bit out more harshly than he meant to, but this was no time for Dean to be taxing the Kahuna's goodwill. So far Kala hadn't brought up the unpleasant subject of money, but Sam could guess his services as Kahuna came with a hefty price tag – one which the brothers Winchester would certainly struggle to pay. "_Come on._"

But then Kala stepped forward and, with a fluid grace that belied his bulk, crouched down in front of the panther. "Dean, the ritual will not work if you do not _want _it to."

The panther growled softly, tail tip flicking in agitation – Kala shot out his hands and grabbed the big cat's head so it could not look away.

"_Hey!_" Even as Dean roared and twisted back, Sam jumped forward, lashing out at Kala's arms and interposing himself between kahuna and cat. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing!"

Kala rose smoothly to his feet, completely imperturbable in the face of Sam's battle-ready stance. "The eyes are the windows of the soul, as you should now. Dean is considering remaining in feline form…permanently."

"_What?_" Sam demanded incredulously. "No – _why_?"

"He believes he can better do his job as a panther."

"A demon-hunting panther…" Sam retorted, "Who can't drive, can't hold a gun, can't stitch himself or me up when we get – " He stopped as he heard the echo of his own words; Kala was looking at him steadily, knowingly…because, of course, as far Dean was concerned, his job wasn't to be a demon hunter, that was just a secondary role. In the whacked world of inside Dean's head, his _raison d'etre_ was solely to protect Sam.

_Dean, stop being an idiot_, would probably not help – as well as sounding the height of ingratitude, and Sam felt a deep-seated sensation of comfort – never to be acknowledged as 'the warm fuzzies' – because his big brother was as always focussed on what he thought was best for _Sam_, as opposed to his own condition. But how to convey all this to Dean in a suitably masculine way? Sam knew for sure that he better not turn this into any 'chick-flick' moment…

Squatting down on his haunches, Sam reached out an arm and placed it on the panther's ruff as he smiled into the glowing emerald eyes watching him warily. "Dude, not that I'm flattered you would seriously give up _women_ and _bar-hopping_ for your lil bro', but even _if _you staying a leopard _was_ a good idea – which it's not – it just wouldn't _work_."

The panther gave a low, distinctly disgruntled growl.

"You've got to know how lucky we were to make it to Kala's without being pulled over by the cops," Sam argued persuasively. "How far do you think we'd get in the future with me having a full-grown panther in the front seat, or trying to check into a motel with 'what-in-hell-is-that?!' going on? Without you in human form, who's going to stitch-up my cuts after we've taken out some fugly? Without you human, I'm going to have to do all the driving – although, actually, that means I get to play decent music…"

With a sharp snarl signifying '_not likely!_' Dean shook himself, dislodging Sam's hand and padding into the circle, where he plonked himself down in a sitting position decisively, eyeing Sam through narrowed eyes.

_Ah yes, threaten air pollution in the interior of his baby,_ Sam heroically did not smirk, helped by the fact that his primary emotion was one of relief…and anticipation. He didn't care how babyish it sounded, and it was in the safety of his head, but he wanted his big brother back to bipedal with that old battered leather coat and insouciant grin present and correct.

Having remained silent to one side, Kala now stepped forward again. Facing the panther, he began to chant sonorously as Sam sensibly kept quiet. As the ritual progressed Sam felt a tingle as realised how powerful the big, unassuming man must be…Kala's voice had a subtly compelling quality, a barely noticeable rhythm that was strangely hypnotic. Such a voice was a weapon, just as much as a knife or gun.

There was a strange noise that Sam, ever after, could only call an _anti-sucking_ sound – a thousand times faster than the blink of an eye and Dean was gone to be replaced by what looked like a sweater-grey cloud, but which wasn't; it was if something had turned Dean into free-floating molecules and was now thrashing them around in a cocktail shaker. Involuntarily Sam blinked and there was a familiar figure – jeans, jacket, silver charm necklace, spiky brunette hair with _way_ too much gel… "Dean!"

Dean pressed both hands to his chest and then quickly patted himself down. "Yes! I'm back, Sammy!"

"Thank-you," Sam began sincerely to Kala.

"No thanks are necessary," Kala smiled at the antics of the elder brother who was still checking that _all_ vital anatomy was present and _correct_. "We need all the hunters of your calibre we can get."

Dean also expressed his own thanks to the Kahuna, who genially came out to wave them off after refusing Sam's tentative approach on the subject of payment. Sam sniggered as Dean practically skipped down the drive and firmly set himself in the driver's seat. Jabbing at the tape-deck and muttering something about 'emo crap', he whipped out Sam's tape and flicked it into the back as he hummed Metallica cheerfully.

"Hey!" Sam protested from the passenger side as his only tape of _Rites of Spring _shot past his ear.

"Driver chooses the music," Dean began in a sing-song tone, "shotgun shuts his cakehole!"

"Well the _driver_ best _remember_ that Kala said he would turn into a panther _again_ at some point," Sam snarked, "and then the shotgun might just go and _spill coffee_ all over someone's _mullet rock_."

"…You wouldn't dare…"

"Are you ready to bet your only copy of _Ride The Lightning_ on it?"

There was a moment of fulminating silence… "Bitch!"

"Jerk…"

And the world was once more as it should be.

© 2007, C D Stewart

Author's Note:

Apologies for the length of time this has taken but finally, finito! I have also extensively rewritten _False Memory_ and hope to post that to completion in the near future.

NB:

1 According to Bible chronology, Adam was created by God in October 4026 BC (that is, 4,026 years before the birth of Jesus Christ), almost – but not quite – at the end of the 6th creative "day"2.

Methuselah, Adam's great-great-great-great-great-grandson (in turn the grandfather of Noah) was born in 3339 BC and died aged 969 in 2370 BC, several months before the start of the Great Flood (which began at the start of November 2370 BC and subsided in 2369 BC). Of course nobody knew anything about, or of course counted time, as being _**before**_ an event that would not happen for over 2,000 years, so time was counted as After Adam['s creation. Thus, to Methuselah, the year 2370 BC was the year 1656 AA.

2 Please note – the doctrine of 'literal creationism' (i.e., six 24-hour-long Earth solar days) is _not_ and never has been a Biblical doctrine. This idea was invented over 200 years after the death of Christ/the Bible had been written by a small, but unfortunately influential, minority of church theologians who insisted that _everything_ within the bible was to be taken as "literal" – even those scriptures where the biblical writer specifically stated he was being symbolic in meaning, such as for example Revelation 1:1 and Hebrews 2:4.

This vocal group was unhappily further 'helped' by the fact that the only Bible translations used at that time were in Latin and so the meaning and nuances of the original Bible languages of Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek were lost; in all these the word translated 'day' in English could mean anything from a literal 24-hour day to several thousands of years depending on the surrounding context or the subject under discussion.

In the original Hebrew and Aramaic, Bible chronology indicated that the Earth was billions of years old, that each of the creative 'days' was 7,000 solar years long (totalling 42,000 years) and that some of the creative acts were gradual processes that continued over several "days". If you were able to go back in time to the era of Jesus Christ – or back to the life of Moses who wrote Genesis - and told them that a 'literal 24-hour day' was meant, they would have laughed themselves silly at such a ridiculous notion.


End file.
